All That Is Left
by OrangeShipper
Summary: A hasty decision leads to consequences that will change their lives. AU S2 - how it should have been! EPILOGUE NOW UP: All good things...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Right. This is an idea that I've had brewing for a long time. One of those scenarios I've happily played in my head but always thought it was just a little too exaggerated to feasibly work in fanfic._

_This week, I had a flash of inspiration (thank you, Fall of Giants, Ken Follet and Dan Stevens!) for how I could make it feasible. Yay! And was newly inspired to write this, thanks as well to masses of encouragement from Eolivet._

_To set the scene a little, it's going to be an extensive AU (clearly, now) from the end of series 1. _

_If you'll allow me to claim now that though, certainly for this chapter and maybe the next, this will possibly seem a bit "Oh, here we go again" - I promise that it leads into a completely original idea, and that really the "Oh here we go again" part of it is really just a drop in the ocean to set up what will come after, which is really the main point of the fic. _

_Basically, I'm asking you to bear with me through this chapter! It is absolutely not just another 'post ep 7 fix-it' scenario - it will extend and develop into the war in a very AU manner. _

_Erm.. I do hope I haven't just really put you off! Enjoy! :) (Oh, and I promise I haven't forgotten about A New Dawn - I'm just waiting for the inspiration to strike!)_

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><p><strong>All That Is Left<strong>

**Chapter One**

The atmosphere around the breakfast table that morning was subdued.

The atmosphere in general had been subdued for a few days now. Though nothing seemed so very different, yet, the very shadow of war was dark enough to dampen spirits. The fact was, there was a war on – and the very awareness of that, despite its lack of manifestation to Lord Grantham's family in any real form yet, made anything other than an attitude of melancholy seem quite out of place.

Mary was glad of it. It meant the air of gloom that hung about her seemed in keeping with the mood of everyone else. It allowed her an excuse, gave her something to blame her despondency on.

With little enthusiasm, or appetite, she shunted her eggs around her plate with her fork. Occasionally Sybil would glance at her. Mary imagined she knew full well that it was not the war that troubled her. She was beyond caring. She wasn't sure she could care about anything anymore. Her heart was too shattered and empty to care.

Of course, it was not as though she didn't deserve it. She'd treated him terribly, she knew that. It almost made her anguish seem bearable; repayment for her repeated idiocy. Matthew was well rid of her.

Spearing a morsel and lifting her fork to her lips, she looked up with only passing interest as her mother entered the room. She uttered a mumbled greeting before nibbling disinterestedly at her food.

"Good morning, dears," Cora murmured as she breezed along the table to where Robert was seated. Mary's awareness was piqued; her mother sounded unusually distracted. She listened with half an ear as she continued to push her food around.

"What is it, darling?" Robert had also noticed his wife's manner.

"Carson just passed this to me, outside," she held out a sealed envelope to Robert, who looked up enquiringly as he took it. "It's been delivered from Crawley House."

Instantly, Mary looked up, her fork halfway to her lips. Slowly, she lowered it as she watched her father open the letter and read it, a deepening frown on his face. Why on earth would Matthew – or Cousin Isobel, for that matter – write her father a _letter_?

Robert's face paled.

"Good God," he whispered, voice hushed. Beside him, reading over his shoulder, Cora's face turned ashen.

As Robert continued to stare at the letter, Sybil leaned forwards slightly and frowned.

"What is it? What does it say?"

Mary was relieved she had asked. Her blood was running cold at the sight of her parents' faces.

"It's Matthew." Robert shook his head in resignation and sighed deeply. "He's… gone. Already, by the looks of it." He tapped the letter with the back of his fingers. Mary's heart thumped in her chest.

"Gone?" She whispered breathlessly. He couldn't have… Of course, he had said that he would, but not so soon? Surely!

She felt the blood drain from her face as her father met her eyes coldly. He looked saddened, but beyond that, she could have sworn that she could see the slightest shadow of accusation in his gaze.

"Yes. With the intention of –" he glanced at the page. "– buying a commission into the army. He's going to France."

"Oh…" Sybil breathed, eyes wide in shock. Edith's brows rose in almost amused interest. A moment's silence hung over the table as they each processed the implications of Matthew's letter. Oh, Mary had resigned herself to the fact that he would leave, but she had not for a moment thought that he would so rashly throw himself at the army! Matthew. The army. The war. The things seemed incompatible. Matthew was dear, kind, gentle… A solicitor. Peaceful. A soldier, he was not. It didn't make any sense.

"But that's ridiculous!" She eventually spluttered. "He can't possibly –"

"I assure you, he can, and he has!" Robert said sharply. Mary glared. How could he do this? The panic she felt was only compounded by the stirring of guilt in her stomach. He would have stayed… Of course… If, if… She had driven him away. He had left because of her. She felt sick.

"What reasons does he give?" Edith asked. Mary was not oblivious to her tone that clearly hoped for the blame to be laid at her feet. "It does seem awfully rash, even for Matthew."

Robert glanced back over the letter, and seemed to wilt a little. His voice quietened.

"It seems he wants to… _do his part_." The words dripped from the Earl's lips. "He just wants to do something. To make his own decision and follow it through." He suddenly looked weary, aged. "I'm not sure I can blame him." It had been hard for the young man, these last few weeks – so very hard. He'd done admirably well to deal with the turmoil thrown at him by… Cora's pregnancy (his heart ached a little), and had certainly not been helped by his eldest daughter. Yes, he could very well see why Matthew had leapt to the call.

"Oh, Robert…" Cora said softly.

Contemplative silence filled the thick air. Matthew, going to war. Now, it was real. It was here. It affected them. And it was her fault… Mary bit the inside of her lip hard, frowning at what was left of her largely untouched breakfast. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It should be _she_ being punished for this mess, not him.

"Papa, you must do something," she implored firmly, turning her eyes to plead with him. "You can stop him, surely?"

"My dear, there's nothing I can do. He left on the first morning train – he doesn't even say for where."

"But that's not –"

"Mary," he warned.

"What?" Mary stood with a sudden surge of resolve, shunting her chair back, earning raised eyebrows from her mother. "I'm sorry, Papa, but if you won't try to stop him then I shall."

"Mary!" Cora exclaimed.

"I shall!" Mary could hear her own voice rising in her ears. She sounded wild. She was reminding herself worryingly of Sybil in her foolishness, but she couldn't seem to stop herself now the thought had entered her head. Her heart was racing. Matthew couldn't join the army. He couldn't. It was her fault, and it was imperative that she at least try to right this terrible wrong. She _had _to at least try…

"And what do you think you are going to _do_ to stop him?" Robert rose to his feet also, leaning forwards with his hands on the table. He felt dangerously as though her were losing control over his daughters.

Mary clasped her hands in front of her, twisting them nervously. When she spoke, her voice at least was impressively calm and firm.

"I shall find him. I'll beg him, if I have to. And if there _is_ nothing I can do, then at least I shall have tried." Her voice trembled a little, then. Her determined glare melted suddenly to an expression of sorrow. "I must – I must speak to him, Papa."

Robert opened his mouth to rebuke her stubbornness, but Cora understood the look in Mary's eye and laid her hand on his arm. His expression softened a little, and he looked sadly at his daughter.

"I think it's a little late now for that, Mary… Don't you?"

She knew perfectly well what he meant. But he didn't understand that that, more than anything, was why she simply couldn't let him leave. She may have realised too late how much she loved him, but at the very least now she knew he deserved to know the truth, if it could save him from this folly. And if it really _was_ too late… She couldn't bear that he might go to war, when they had parted so terribly. He had to understand.

"I know it only too well," she replied with a sad smile. For a long moment, their eyes were locked in a silent argument. Eventually, Robert leaned back a fraction.

"You'll take Branson."

Mary sighed in relief at the small victory. It was the first step.

"I'll be perfectly fine on the train."

"You _will_ take Branson, Mary."

"Oh, Papa," she sighed with a shake of her head, even as she left the dining room. "When have I ever done as I am told?"

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><p>In very little time, Mary was ready to leave. Nothing on earth would have stopped her. No matter how determined Matthew might be, <em>she<em> was even more determined, now. A hasty discussion with her father had led her to decide that Manchester was likely where he had gone; York was closer, but they could far more easily imagine him returning to his old home to sign up, certainly now. As she strode briskly to the front door, pulling her gloves on, her father appeared from his library and stopped her. Taking her arm, he looked seriously and fondly into her eyes.

"I do hope you find him, my dear, and work out what it is you need to." Mary smiled gratefully. He continued, pressing something into her hand. "You'd better take this – if you ask about him at the recruitment office, they won't simply hand out his details to any stranger."

Mary nodded, with a small, weak smile. Robert kissed her cheek, and without another word she hurried out of the door and into the car. She was grateful to her father; a calling card with her name and address, of course, would prove her connection to Matthew to anyone that asked what business she had in seeking him.

Before long they reached the station. Branson turned in his seat, looking back pleadingly at Mary.

"Are you sure you won't allow me to accompany you, my Lady?"

"Quite sure, thank you, Branson." Her resolve was clear. She didn't need him, had already promised her parents that she would telegram them with any news. She was perfectly capable.

"Alright. Well, good luck with it, my Lady – I do hope you get what it is you're after."

"Thank you," Mary gave the chauffer a warm, sincere smile.

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><p>Manchester was loud, dirty, bustling. Mary's eyes widened as she left the station, beginning to wonder if perhaps she should have allowed Branson to come after all. But no, she was determined to do this alone. She wanted no audience to her failure, if it came to that – and no-one but Matthew to share her success, if that would be the case.<p>

It was not so very different to London, she told herself as she strode purposefully down the wide, busy street. The recruitment office was not hard to find; though it was only a few days since the outbreak of war, the push to enlist was already fierce. Signs plastered to every wall showed her the way, and soon she saw the long queue of men trailing out of the door.

Her heart leapt. She may still be in time.

Keeping some distance to try and look as inconspicuous as she could, she walked down the side of the line, tracing each face carefully. Her eyes fixed upon every head of golden hair, but no, that was not him, nor that… As she drew nearer the front of it, the pounding of her heart in fear grew louder. She reached the front. He was not there. She looked back, searching the line again, desperately… No.

Fighting down her rising apprehension, she walked as tall as she could to the little rostrum by the entrance. A man in uniform was taking down the details of young man of barely twenty. Mary waited, shifting restlessly, until the youth was ushered inside, then she rushed to the uniformed man.

"Excuse me –"

"Pardon me, Miss, you're not wanting to sign up are ya? There's a queue, you know!" The man who had been next in line shouted in affront.

"I'm terribly sorry, I'll only be a moment," Mary said, raising her hand in a dismissive wave of apology with only the barest glance back at the man. "Excuse me," she said again to the man behind the rostrum, who was tapping his fingers on the top of it. His brows were raised in perplexed amusement.

"Yes?"

"I believe my cousin came here today with the intention of buying a commission. Could you please tell me whether he's done so already? His name is Matthew Crawley." She gestured down at his little book, already bursting with names. The man's brows rose further.

"Is that right?" He peered doubtfully at her, but his demeanour changed immediately once he saw the name _Lady Mary Crawley_ and the address of Downton Abbey on her card. "'Let me see, Milady." He scanned through the book, running his finger down each page. Eventually he nodded. "Ah, here we are. Yes, we had a Matthew Crawley sign up this morning."

"Oh." Mary gasped a little, resting a hand on the edge of the rostrum and gripping it lightly. She felt faint. She was too late. Always, too late.

"Is… there anything else, Milday?" The soldier asked when she showed no sign of moving. The men behind were growing impatient. Mary blinked, fixing him with a demanding gaze.

"Yes. What might his next step from here be? Will he leave right away?" Her heart was in her mouth.

The officer shrugged. "He'll be sent down for training Friday." It was Tuesday.

Mary nodded. "Thank you," she smiled gratefully.

Her mind whirled. Too late. What now? She utterly refused to have come so far for nothing. He was going to war… Matthew. She would not let him leave – would not, _could_ not – without him knowing it. It was too late for her to hope for anything now, she knew, but… She simply couldn't bear the thought of him leaving to _fight_ – Matthew! – believing that she hadn't cared for him. If he were to…to… She couldn't even finish the thought.

For a little while, she simply stood there, looking around her at the tall, overshadowing buildings. If he did not leave until Friday… From his letter, she understood that he had no intentions of returning to Downton in the meantime. A hotel, then…

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><p>By the fourth hotel, Mary had worked out a little routine. It had a sort of sick irony to it, she thought wryly. But it seemed the easiest way.<p>

She moved elegantly up to the desk and rang the bell. Several moments later a short, balding man appeared. He folded his hands and surveyed her.

"May I be of assistance?"

"Yes, thank you." Mary smiled her most charming smile. "My husband is attending a conference in the city; I've brought some papers he left at home this morning – how remiss of him!" The steward smiled thinly. Mary took a breath and continued. The lie slipped out quite easily, now. "He also – dear thing – quite forgot to tell me which hotel he'd be staying at. His name is Matthew Crawley." She raised her eyebrows hopefully. To pose as his wife cut her deeply, but it was the only way to find anything out, she had quickly realised. She produced her card and waited, praying that this time… This time…

"Of course," the man eventually proclaimed with an air of authority. "Yes, I know the gentleman. He checked in an hour or two ago."

"That's wonderful. Thank you. At last!" A deep sigh of relief left her as she smiled tremulously, already emotionally exhausted. "Now, where might I find him?"

"I shall take you to his room, Milday."

Mary's brows rose. His room… She had not expected… Though, she supposed she had declared herself his wife. She trembled, in trepidation and shame at herself as she followed the little man up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. Every step brought her closer to him. His room… She had thought that she might send a message up, he would come down to meet her, though she had hardly believed that he _would_… And, she reflected, this was a conversation she would rather conduct in private. She clutched nervously at her linen skirt as the steward stopped in front of a door.

Once, twice, he rapped sharply. Mary hung back. She couldn't breathe. She wanted to run away. But she was here now, and it was too late… Always too late. Her pulse raced.

The door clicked open a little. Mary could only see his hand, his fingers curling around the edge of it, the tip of his nose when he leaned forwards a little.

"What is it?"

"Pardon me, Mr Crawley. Your wife is here, I have taken the liberty of showing her straight up."

Mary winced.

"My wife?"

As Matthew exclaimed in utter astonishment, he swung the door fully open.

Mary.

He visibly flinched, buckled slightly, when he saw her. In that moment, a look of indescribable anguish passed across his face. Mary's heart panged, guilt and regret pooling in her as she looked at him.

It was only a moment. The steward stood between them, a physical barrier, a blockade. It would not do to draw attention to anything untoward. Through gritted teeth, Matthew kept his eyes fixed, burning, on Mary as he dismissed the man.

"Thank you. That will be all."

With a slight bow, the man turned and hurried back along the corridor.

"Matthew –" Mary took a tentative step forwards, bursting with sorrow at his expression. His lips were downturned in anguish and his eyes glittered harshly.

"My _wife_?" He repeated, his voice dangerously low and shaking.

He shook his head, stepped back. And shut the door in her face.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! As always I'd love to know what you think - reviews make my day! _

_On a slight historical note, in case you were wondering - I remember reading in a s2 article that "enlisting" referred to men joining the lower ranks of the army - officers, as Matthew would be, would pay for a commission. Anyway, that's as I understand it, hence that term appearing here - though I will stand corrected if anyone knows better!_

_Thank you! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Another chapter ALREADY! I'm so fired up for writing this, though school hols are practically over so they won't all be this quick. But this one was rushed especially for Eolivet's birthday which is today. :)_

_Thank you so much for your lovely reviews to ch 1! I'm really pleased to see some of you are excited to see where it will go! Though things will probably become clearer soon... But I really appreciate all your comments, thank you so much!_

_This chapter is rated T but I'll warn you now, it's a very strong T. Erm... yeah. *cough* _

_Enjoy...!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Two<span>**

"Matthew! Don't – please."

Somehow, Mary had managed to reach the door before it slammed entirely shut, and wedged her foot in the gap, letting out a small cry at the crush of pressure. Her hands were pressing against it, trying to push back against the weight of Matthew's body the other side of it. For once in her life, she didn't care how unladylike she appeared. She would not let him close a door on her… On them.

Matthew heard her cry and winced as he felt the resistance of her foot. No matter how furious he was, he could not bear to cause her pain, and stepped back reluctantly. Mary's hand appeared around the edge of the door and she gingerly stepped through, flushed with exertion and shame. The very sight of her made Matthew's blood boil.

For an unbearably long moment, he couldn't bring himself to speak to her. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt so angry at a person, certainly not a woman, in his entire life – and his anger was only increased by the irritating knowledge that his rage was only equal to the strength of his love, for it was that alone which fuelled his anger. He glared coldly at her, and when he finally spoke, his hushed voice shook with barely suppressed emotion.

"That's a cruel turn, Mary. Even for you."

Mary shrank back from the accusation in his voice. God knew she deserved it. Part of her wanted to turn and run, now; she'd only served to hurt him more and the pain in his eyes was breaking her into pieces. She swallowed and tipped her chin up defiantly, eyes glistening with tears that she refused to let fall. She had come this far.

"I'm sorry, Matthew, but I had to speak with you. It was the only way I'd find out where you were." Her own voice trembled with the effort of keeping it level.

"And so you thought you'd say you were my _wife_?"

"Matthew…" She had no excuse, she knew.

"In any case, there's nothing left to say," he bit out harshly. Sharply, he shrugged, glaring at her in challenge. "I imagine you're here because of the letter I sent your father. Well, you're too late. I am going."

Mary's expression flinched. Her eyes flickered down at his unconscious gesture, to the small stack of papers on the desk. Official papers. Army papers. Taking him away from her… Though she knew she had pushed him away herself. His tie was heaped in a loose tangle beside them. His jacket – and waistcoat, she realised – lay on the chair by the desk.

For the first time since she'd come in (barged in, given him little choice _but_ to let her in), she really looked at him. His cheeks burnt with anger, and with only a shirt covering his torso she could see his throat pulse softly where his collar was loosened, the muscles in his bared forearms twitching as he clenched his fists by his side in bitter frustration.

Mary paled, flushed, somehow both at the same time as she stared at him openly for a second. She had never seen him like this… It was only when he frowned and whipped away to stand by the window that she realised she'd ignored him.

"That much is evident!" She exclaimed, bitter at his tone, forgetting for a moment why she _was_ there. She looked up again sharply, hardening her gaze. "I might be too late to stop you flinging yourself stupidly into a war, but if you are determined… I know you have done this to run away. But you don't know what it is you've run away from. There are facts, things about me…" She trailed off, becoming distracted, heat flaring in her stomach at the contours of his back and shoulders through the thin white cotton of his shirt. She steeled her voice as if it could drown out her treacherous thoughts. "You must allow me the courtesy, at least, to make you privy to the full reasons for why I didn't accept you."

Matthew whirled to face her, looking even more agitated. He glared daggers at her, spearing her heart.

"Allow you the _courtesy_?" He threw her words back at her mockingly. Mary quavered. "I'm sorry, Lady Mary, was two months not quite long enough for you to _make me privy_ to your opinion of me?"

"My opinion of you had nothing to do with it!" Mary couldn't help her voice rising in frustration. His anger was infuriating her, the way he was twisting her words and blocking her efforts…

Matthew's jaw dropped in speechless fury. He had started pacing, agitatedly, though the room was only small.

"You are really outdoing yourself, Mary." He spat the words out like thorns. His heart was burning a hole in his chest. "I thought perhaps that your regard for me counted less to you than more – material – concerns, but to know it mattered _nothing_ to you?" He gasped for air; it was like he was drowning in a storm of hurt. Everything he had thought, everything he'd believed… The shreds of hope she'd given him… It _had_ all been nothing.

"Matthew, will you for goodness' sake just listen!" Mary yelled suddenly, shocking him to silence. She couldn't quite control the rush in her and continued to shout across the, otherwise silent, room. "My opinion of you was nothing to do with my hesitation, other than that it was so great as to cause the other!"

"What?" He snapped back. Mary took a deep breath, realising she had made little sense. Forcing her voice to quiet, she spoke more seriously, measuring her words.

And she told him.

She told him everything.

As her sorry tale unfolded, her tears kept remarkably in check, Matthew stared almost blankly. His heart had burnt out; he could feel nothing any more. Pacing, pacing around each other, past each other, they hurled accusations and questions and justifications and gradually, painfully, dragged out the full truth.

Matthew's head was in his hands.

"That utter bastard."

Mary gasped at the curse on his lips, unused to such language from him.

"I let him." Her quiet voice sounded resigned. Defeated.

"That isn't the point!" Matthew's voice rose sharply in angered frustration. "He had no right to – God – and _that_ is why you wouldn't marry me?"

"Do you imagine it was easy for me, Matthew?" She shouted suddenly in response to his tone. "The thought of destroying everything we had together? I could have just married you in ignorance, but at least I _loved_ you enough to _want_ to tell you!"

"Yes, but you didn't, did you!" He was filled with passionate indignation. "Instead you left me to believe that you just didn't care enough, refusing to satisfy me either way!" He paced towards her, leaning forwards, his dark expression tinged with hurt. "How long did you expect me to wait?"

"I don't know! I tried, but I –" Reeling with frustration, she yelled without reserve at him, though he was only mere steps away.

"I am not a mind-reader, Mary!" He flung his arm back towards the desk. "And now I'm going to a bloody war, and _now_ you tell me that you loved me!"

"Oh!" Mary let out a loud, frustrated exclamation and kissed him.

She clutched the front of his shirt in her hands and yanked him towards her, pulling his lips fiercely to her mouth. Words were useless, they were achieving nothing and the thought of having driven him away made her desperate to reclaim him now. The sharp tug tore open the top of Matthew's shirt and he fell forwards, slamming Mary's back against the door with a grunt of shocked pleasure.

Hot desire surged through him and he kissed her back with a fury and a passion beyond anything Mary could have imagined. She gasped as her eyes closed and she surrendered to him. It was glorious. She wanted him. She _wanted_ him to claim her. She wanted to give herself to him. She wanted to be his, utterly, completely. She gasped as he bit her lip hard; his hands were tearing at her coat to shed it, then her hat, allowing his fingers access to delve into her hair.

She had kissed him with such visceral passion… Matthew felt possessed. He had _felt_ so much in these brief minutes, fury, rage, hurt, devastation, regret, longing, lust, and all of it had been driven by the depth of his love that now had broken, flooding over into a raging desire that gripped him. She loved him. Oh, the thought of her with… Pamuk (he forced his mind to repeat the man's name) tore at his heart and he… It was terrible, he knew, but she loved him and he wanted her to be _his_, not anyone else's. And she wanted him. His rational mind had ceased to think a long time ago.

Mary whimpered softly, clutching his head to hers as his tongue coaxed into her open mouth, and she slid her own along it. She bit down. He grunted, jerked, did not pull away. His hot breath mingling with hers made her shudder.

Her hands were all over his shoulders, his back, his waist, his hips, pulling him against her and he pressed back against her just as earnestly. His hips ground against her and… she could feel him through his trousers, through the linen of her skirt, feel how he wanted her and she groaned into his mouth before sucking at his tongue, scraping her teeth and her lips against him.

Matthew was burning. His eyes were pressed tight shut as he savoured every single touch and point of pressure and softness he could feel. She was writhing against him desperately. Oh, he needed her… Gasping raggedly, he dragged his lips from hers and tasted her neck, her sweet skin. Her lips were by his ear and her soft moans, the way her tongue brushed against his lobe, sent shudders sweeping to every extremity.

Mary held him fiercely to her. She didn't want him to stop. She had never felt arousal like this, never imagined… Her hands were clutching greedily at his shirt, fumbling to undo it so she could touch every contour of his bare chest, his back... He groaned, breath reverberating hotly against her neck. Her hands roamed all across his back, up to clutch at his shoulders then tracing all the way down, down to the small of his back where her hands slipped over the sweat on his skin and then still further down, with a daring squeeze that made Matthew gasp audibly. She grinned, drowning in heady exhilaration, and kissed his shoulders.

It wasn't enough. Mary pushed her hips against him, pushed him back. As they staggered back towards the bed they carried on kissing in an exquisite clash of lips and tongues and heat. They fell carelessly, landing on the bed with a delicious thud that knocked the breath out of them. Mary kicked off her shoes as Matthew shrugged his shirt off, before leaning over her and kissing her again as their legs tangled together. Raw need burnt through every vein.

His hand found its way under her skirt, grazing along the silk of her stockings and up to her thigh. Mary was trembling in pleasure, his touch sending pangs of desire sweeping through her so strongly it was almost painful. She could not think, did not _want_ to think. If he were to leave, they would at least have this… His free hand, limited in movement as he was leaning on that elbow, made hasty work of undoing her blouse. Mary tugged his belt off. He kissed her neck, lower to the top of her chest. Mary pressed her head back into the pillows and squirmed up against him, gasping for breath. Her lighter daytime corset pulled her waist alone in, and she felt him pull aside the scrap of vest that covered her breasts and then his mouth and hands were on her. His breath and his tongue and his lips… Her hands twisted desperately into his hair, holding him against her.

Underneath her skirt, Matthew's hand was stroking up her thigh to her hip, finding her skin. Mary flamed with desire. And then, without any warning at all, a treacherous thought surfaced in her mind and she froze. Matthew felt her stiffen. Reluctantly he dragged his lips from her breast and kissed her mouth softly, panting heavily as he looked at her in concern. It took every fibre of strength he possessed to hold himself back.

"Matthew!" Her face twisted into an unreadable expression.

"What is it?" He practically groaned the words out. His body ached for her. His hand slid from under her skirt to rest on her waist.

"I... can't…" Tears filled her eyes suddenly. "Oh God." Her eyes closed and she pulled his lips fiercely to hers again, shifting her hips against him as though her body were protesting against her mind. For a second Matthew gave in to her, before pulling back, frowning in confusion. He was struggling to concentrate, her movements driving his mind to unspeakable thoughts.

"Mary…" He gasped.

Mary stared up into his eyes, her gaze filled with confusion.

"I… Matthew I want to, but…" She sobbed suddenly.

"If you don't, Mary…"

"No! But…" Another sob. Edith had been right. She was a slut. She had no sooner told Matthew of her shame than she was seeking to repeat it. True, it was different… It was so, so different, already she could barely think of Pamuk as her body burned for Matthew, but… Was she incapable of controlling herself? Her desire turned, ashen, to shame.

Matthew swallowed hard and shifted off her so that he could sit, and pulled her up into his arms, bowing his head. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. What had he been thinking? After she'd suffered such trauma at the hands of a man and confided in him, what had he done but… Oh, he was an insensitive, thoughtless, selfish fool.

"It's alright," he murmured against her hair. "I'm sorry, Mary, I don't know what –"

"I'm shameful!" Mary pulled back to look at him with tear stained cheeks. "Matthew, I… I told you what sort of a woman I was and now I have only proven it! I'm…" Her words were lost in a sob.

Matthew shook his head incredulously, stunned that she could speak so of herself. In that moment his desire was swept out by a burst of such love that it took his breath away. He looked at her, really looked at her, tracing her every treasured feature with dark eyes. His pulse started to race impulsively and he brushed his fingers across her soft cheek.

"Marry me."

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Well, there we are...! Tick number 3 for me in 'Pamuk Confessions'. You may be getting an inkling now where this will be heading! Thank you so much for reading - I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are always appreciated! _

_Oh, and I'm not sure if this will go M next chapter or the one after - so please add to alerts if you don't normally check the M section! _

_Thank you! :)  
><em>


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Thank you so much for your reviews/alerts etc for Chapter 2 - I so appreciate it. I am, as I keep saying, having huge fun writing this fic - the fact that anyone else is enjoying it too is just an absolute bonus! So thank you so much!_

_Thanks must go, here, to Ken Follet, Maude, Walter, and Dan Stevens, for revealing to me the practicalities of this chapter! (Which, I admit, is the main reason I haven't written this til now!)_

_I apologise now for any contrivances and cliches - this is complete wish-fulfilment for me! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Three<span>**

"What?" Mary sat back, lips parted in surprise, but Matthew was earnest and grasped her hands.

"Marry me. Not because… Not so that we can – do this –" He gestured vaguely between them then kissed her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes. His voice was breathless, serious. "I'm committed to the army, now, Mary but… If I must go – if you love me – I want you to be my wife. Marry me before I leave."

He still wanted her to be his wife. Mary's head shook slightly in bewilderment.

"But Matthew, I'm... I have acted so dreadfully –"

"Yes, you have!" But his lips were curved into a tender smile. "Mary, don't you understand?" His hand lifted to cup her cheek gently. She gazed at him breathlessly, still trembling softly from their passionate embrace. "I love you. Please… That's all that matters".

Mary leaned into his caress, letting his words wash over her, savouring them. Oh, she loved him.

"You leave in three days, though…"

"Do you want to?" He looked pleadingly at her. This was it. This was what it all came down to, this moment. He didn't care what had happened before, or what might happen to him in the future. Everything rested on this.

"Yes," she breathed, as a beautiful, tremulous smile crossed her face.

Matthew kissed her. He pulled her close to him, encompassed her in his embrace and kissed her. Mary sighed, leaning into his warmth, smiling against his lips as her hand lay on his bare chest and her fingers curled gently into the light hair spread over it. She wasn't sure she'd ever felt such a warm wash of contentment in her life. She loved him. She pulled back and tucked her head into his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under her palm, his warm breath on her cheek.

"Must you really go?" She sighed.

"Yes," he murmured. Mary pressed her eyes shut. She understood. If… If the unthinkable happened… They would have this. They would have each other. They would at least have been husband and wife. But it seemed impossible, a futile dream. She sat up straighter and looked at him, letting her eyes drift over his handsome face and his hair, ruffled now from her hands in it earlier.

"I would love nothing more than to marry you before you leave, Matthew, but how can we possibly?"

Matthew leapt up and started pacing, tapping his fingers to his lips as he thought.

"We can do it, I'm sure," he muttered. Mary smiled, watching him with an appreciative gaze as he moved back and forth across the room. In their fit of passion she'd not really had the chance to _look_ at him… And with his shirt discarded on the floor and his trousers half undone around his hips, he looked utterly enticing.

She sat back against the pillows, pulling her blouse closed and admired him as he worked through it. "We could do it with a license… I'd need to apply to the Bishop. Witnesses… Not too difficult to find. Proof of residence… I can get that easily enough, I imagine post is still being misdirected to my old firm, or house…"

He stopped pacing and looked at her. "You'd need identification, that's all. How can we get that?"

Excitement bubbled through Mary. He seemed so sure, could it really be that easy?

"I have this," she fished in her skirt pocket and showed him her calling card. "I used it to prove that I knew you, hoping the name would be connection enough."

"That's ideal!" Matthew leaned forward, resting his hands on the bed and kissed her, deeply, feeling lightheaded with the thrill of realising that it was _possible_. He grasped Mary's hands and pulled her up, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. "Mary, we can do it."

"Are you sure?" She couldn't believe it; her head was in a spin. So much had happened in so little time, since she'd stepped through that door, that do be considering such a wild scheme somehow didn't seem out of place at all.

"Yes. I'll… I can go out now and arrange it all. With any luck we can be married tomorrow."

"What can I do?" In that moment, she had never loved him more, and her eyes shone with affection.

Matthew grinned at her, exhilarated.

"Nothing, Mary. Flowers, if you'd like – leave everything else to me." Suddenly, his expression sobered. "Though – our parents."

"Oh." Mary had quite forgotten about them in her excitement. For a brief, wonderful few minutes, there had been nothing else to her but Matthew and this room. "I… suppose we should inform them."

"We should," he said quietly.

"But…" She kissed him softly, delighting in the freedom to do so. "Matthew, we only have 'til Friday, and if they knew…"

"I know."

Mary swallowed. To get married without their parent's knowledge… It was unthinkable. They'd be hurt. Her parents would be furious. Isobel… But she didn't want anything to disturb these precious last few days with Matthew. Her parents would never allow them to be married in such haste in any case, they'd make them wait to arrange it properly but that might be too late for them… Now that everything was finally out of the dark between them, the idea of _waiting_ to marry Matthew was utterly unbearable. They couldn't do it.

"Can we not?" She whispered tentatively.

"Of course…" Matthew didn't want to either. He could only imagine how hurt his mother might be, but he blocked the thought from his mind. He may only have these few days with Mary, she would understand… They had said their goodbyes already. _This_ was what was important now. "But Mary, you have no bag, or maid – what will your parents think? They'll worry – you have to tell them _something_."

Mary frowned gently in thought, trying not to feel distracted by his arms around her.

"I shall… cable them and say I haven't found you yet. They know I'm determined. I have money enough to buy a new dress, and they'll know perfectly well I can use a maid from the hotel if needs be. I'll think of something." She smiled determinedly and kissed him. Nothing would spoil this.

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><p>They stepped outside into the pressing afternoon air, bursting with nervous energy. It all felt slightly like a dream still, especially to Mary who had never been to this place before.<p>

Matthew gave her careful directions to the nearest Post Office, and some retailers that would suit. They agreed to meet back at the hotel for dinner in an hour and a half, then Matthew kissed her cheek and hailed a taxi, giving her a delighted wave as he went. Mary smiled exuberantly after him.

She was filled with a sort of terrified excitement as she made her way down the busy street in the direction Matthew had indicated. It was absolutely, utterly mad. It didn't seem real. She was still overwhelmed by the simple fact that he had forgiven her – he had been upset, hurt, of course he had and it had pained her to be the cause of it – but oh, he had forgiven her and he loved her! She felt as though her smile would never drop.

Her heart kept tugging at the prospect of him leaving, but… to know that he'd be leaving as her husband was the dearest consolation prize she could have wished for. They were to be _married_, quite possibly tomorrow – it was unthinkable! But her heart had never felt lighter. Her parents, their family, she would deal with once he had gone. Nothing, nothing would spoil these precious days she had with him. Not now.

The telegram to her parents was simple, and vague. _No luck yet. Will stay – Friday morning train at the latest if still no luck. Perfectly fine – nothing needed. M. _She hoped that with her return home set for Friday at the latest, they would not think to worry for her before then.

She looked with a detached interest in the windows of the clothes shops. There was clearly no time for a dressmaker, she would simply have to make do with what she could get here for a day or two. One more dress would suffice. She bought the nicest that she could afford with what little funds she had to hand, along with some new silk stockings and other essentials. She was sparing, careful to keep a little money; for tonight, at least, she'd need a hotel room as well. She felt really quite liberated.

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><p>Later, in the modest restaurant of the hotel over dinner, Matthew filled her in on his activities that afternoon. He'd purchased a marriage license without any trouble, and they were to be married at midday at his old parish church. He grasped her hand earnestly across the table as he told her how he'd easily found some letters at his old firm, and besides that, two of his old colleagues had gladly agreed to forgo their lunch breaks to serve as their witnesses.<p>

Mary's eyes shone with delighted excitement at his eagerness. She'd never felt happiness like it.

As she mulled over her dessert, Matthew watched her thoughtfully. Tomorrow, she would be his wife. He couldn't wrap his mind around the thought. But despite his overwhelming joy, he was troubled, just a little. Their family really would be furious. Oh, he had no doubt about the action, he was utterly convinced of its rightness, but he was very aware that it was Mary who would have to face them afterwards. He was to leave straight for training, he could hide behind a letter, and by the time he returned it all would have settled. They'd all be thrilled in the long run, he was sure of that. But it didn't seem fair on her.

"Mary," he said softly.

"Mm?" She looked up from her gateau, laden spoon hovering in front of her lips. Matthew smiled fondly.

"Are you… quite sure that this is what you want, Mary?"

Her eyebrows rose sharply. Slowly, she lifted her spoon to her mouth and ate the morsel with great relish, her eyes never leaving Matthew's. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"Matthew… How can you ask me that?" Her tone softly chided him.

He sighed a little. "It's only, I can't imagine that this is how you might have dreamed of getting married. I would hate to feel… that we had rushed because of me. I know it was hasty to suggest…" He clasped her hand tenderly and wet his lips. "I want it to be special for you."

To his surprise, Mary laughed, with a little dismissive shake of her head. Her eyes were sparkling.

"I am marrying you," she smiled. "What else matters?"

Matthew lowered his gaze with a bashful smile, overwhelmed by her love. He squeezed her hand, and smiled wider when he felt her squeeze back. After a brief second to simply enjoy the moment, he met her eyes seriously again.

"And are you very sure about our parents? It will be you that has to tell them, you know. I shan't envy you it."

"I shall manage them perfectly well, Matthew." She sounded more confident than she felt. Matthew nodded, and thought for a moment.

"Would you rather we travelled to Downton on Thursday, and tell them together?"

"And have our last hours together marred by their fury? I'd rather not!"

He chuckled. "Alright. I must admit I agree with you," he smiled. No, he certainly did not envy Mary having to face their reaction.

After dinner, they took coffee in the hotel lounge. They sat, and talked, for hours; about everything, their past and their love and their future. Their future… It was so uncertain, now. They felt as though they were getting to know each other all over again, after the turmoil and the pain of the last month, and they were so aware of the precious little time they would have now.

The clock eventually struck eleven. Mary looked up at it.

"It's late," she murmured rather obviously.

"Yes. We've a busy day ahead tomorrow! Best get a good night's sleep."

Mary turned to him and smiled warmly. It was so comfortable, so easy with him. If he wasn't going away, this might be what all their evenings could be like. She wouldn't mind that at all. But… he _was_ going away.

She put her cup and saucer on the table and shifted forwards in her chair.

"I'll go to the desk and ask for a room," she said as she smoothly stood up.

"What on earth for?"

He sounded as if it were the most ridiculous suggestion in the world! Mary stared at him incredulously.

"Because I must sleep somewhere, Matthew! And we are not –"

"If you'll recall," he rose to his feet and placed his hand on her waist. "As far as the hotel are concerned, you are already here as my wife…" He murmured this into her ear, and she shivered.

"But Matthew –"

"Mary, it's quite alright," he reassured her. "There's no point you paying for a second room for one night, tomorrow we will be…" He trailed off breathlessly, then recovered, moistening his dry lips. "Don't worry, I'll sleep sitting up at the table if you like." He grinned impishly. "I've done so plenty of times before. I shall be perfectly chivalrous."

"Oh…" Mary blinked. He was quite right, of course. And really, considering their behaviour earlier – and the fact that the next night they would be husband and wife – it seemed silly to quibble now over merely sleeping in the same room.

They went upstairs. Upon reaching Matthew's room, he held the door open and Mary stepped in before him. She went to light a candle on the bedside cabinet as he came through and closed the door. She was trembling slightly, she realised, though it was hardly cold in the room.

"Matthew," she whispered quietly.

"Yes?" His response was murmured as he rifled through his small case of things. When Mary said nothing further, he eventually turned, frowning inquisitively. Mary was blushing.

"I… did not buy a nightdress."

"Pardon me?" His mouth formed the words but he wasn't sure that any sound had come out. Mary wrung her hands nervously.

"Well, I… had only a little money and so bought only what I really needed, and I thought… Well, in my own room, it shouldn't have mattered and from tomorrow I thought… I might not…" She trailed off, her deep blush evident, even in the soft candlelight.

Matthew swallowed hard, lowering his eyes to the floor, shifting his gaze uncomfortably. Of course, that sort of thing had occurred to him; his thoughts immediately turned to earlier in the afternoon when he had seen a brief, beautiful glimpse of her, but… That was not for tonight. His eyes fell upon his hand, and he grasped at the nearest solution he could think of.

"Oh. You could… Here." He held out to her one of his fresh, clean shirts, smiling apologetically. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, and clutched it to her chest.

"If you want to change –" He gestured towards the small bathroom.

"Yes! Thank you."

It was strange, really. Just hours earlier, they had dragged themselves back from the brink of passion, half their clothes discarded on the floor and their hands and mouths on each other's bodies. Tomorrow, they would make love. But tonight – it had to be right.

While Mary was in the bathroom, Matthew changed quickly. When the door clicked softly open, he looked up and was utterly struck by her. Her hair was loose and tumbled around her face and over her shoulders in dark waves. His shirt was large on her, thankfully large enough to cover her sufficiently, but only just. He had never imagined she could look so beautiful.

Mary blushed under his obvious gaze, quietly savouring it. She padded across the room and slid under the covers of his bed, still ruffled from where they had lain earlier. The cool cotton of his shirt slid against her body and she smiled contentedly, indulging the thought that it was _his_. She rolled to her side and sank down into the pillows, wriggling comfortably. She was with Matthew. She was happy. Perfectly happy. And it struck her that this didn't feel strange at all.

Sleepily, she mumbled, "You're not really going to sleep sitting up at that table, are you?"

She heard his footsteps, felt the bed dip with his weight behind her. He kissed her temple, as his fingers tenderly brushed strands of hair from her face. She felt the cool rush as he lifted the sheets then the warmth as he tucked them around himself. His foot brushed hers. His breath tickled the back of her neck. There was space between them, carefully maintained by Matthew. As his breathing slowed and he relaxed, his hand fell from its place, tucked by his chest, to her shoulder. Mary smiled, reaching up to his hand and tugging it down to curl around her waist. She sighed, a gentle sigh of perfect contentment, and fell asleep.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! Lots more still to come. Reviews are the cherry on the cake! :) Next chapter will probably be M (Hmmm, can you guess why yet?), so remember to add an alert if you don't normally check there and would like to carry on reading!  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _Apparently I just can't stop writing. I have vastly neglected my work today in favour of Chapter 4, and am far too impatient to wait any longer to post it!_

_Thank you so much, again, for all your responses to Chapter 3! I'm just thrilled to know that people are enjoying it too :) I really need to thank Eolivet, too, for being amazingly encouraging with this whole idea. Thank you!_

_As you'll have noticed, this chapter is still T. I may have got carried away and it's turned out longer than expected - though next chapter, as you will no doubt guess, will very very DEFINITELY be M. _

_With no further ado, here you are!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

When Matthew woke, the first thing that struck him was how very warm he was, and how his breath felt slightly stifled, as though there were something just in front of his face. In fact, his whole front was much warmer than his back. He frowned and shuffled a little, starting in surprise when he felt the warm friction of skin and cotton against his limbs.

His eyes snapped open, to be met by a cloud of dark, chocolate hair. He consciously slowed his breath, trying not to disturb her. His hand, he realised, was resting on her hip. Under his palm, he could feel where the hem of his shirt on her gave way to skin, then to her silk underwear. His heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest and he swallowed thickly. Not yet, not yet, not yet… Her warmth seemed to be spreading through him, warming him, and his hand itched to move over her, to touch her more, to learn every soft curve of her body. Her feet and legs were tangled between his, where she had moved in the night, and a dull ache started in him. There was a slight gap of air between his chest and her back, and between their hips, and how he longed to close it, to pull her tightly against him… The more he thought about it, about her, listening to her soft breaths and watching her shoulders move ever so gently, the more he became aware of a low pulse of desire deep within him. But he couldn't… Not yet, not yet.

With a gentle sigh, he closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply, inhaling her scent and her essence and everything about her, then before he could think any more he eased his limbs from around her and slid out of bed, as carefully as possible. As he stood, and turned to look at her – how her arm clutched the sheets right up to her chin and how her long eyelashes fluttered against her cheek – he realised he was trembling. Quietly, he went into the bathroom and ran a basin of cold water, splashing it over his face. He was going to marry her today.

Some time later, Mary yawned deeply, stretching her arms until they clicked satisfyingly. She turned, and noted how, next to her, the pillow was dinted and the sheets disturbed. She smiled. Bright, summer sun shone in through the window, warming her.

She sat up, tugging Matthew's shirt down around her. The feel of the cotton was different to her own nightdress at home, but she liked it. She tucked her knees up under her chin and hugged her arms around them. Matthew was already dressed in all but his jacket, and sat at the little desk, reading a newspaper. When he heard Mary awake, he looked up and smiled, a shy blush gently colouring his cheeks. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were heavy with sleep, but it only made her more attractive to him.

"You got up!" She smiled lazily. She was almost a little disappointed that he was not beside her still, craving his closeness. But, she supposed, if he were… It would have been easy, so easy, to turn and kiss him and love him, and that would not do, not just yet.

"Yes," he said softly. His lips were curved into a tender smile, but there was a rueful depth to his expression. He shrugged, a little sadly. "We can't get too used to it, can we?"

"Oh, Matthew." Mary's heart ached for him. "Let's not think about that today, please." Her lips pressed into a smile and she held her hand out to him.

He rose, came to her, took her hand and sat on the bed beside her, leaning across to kiss her tenderly on the lips. Her arms fell draped around his neck and she sighed softly, kissing him, slowly and sweetly. She was trying so hard to forget, to forget that now she had finally found him he would be leaving her, but the knowledge constantly pressed at the back of her mind. She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his, eliciting a little hum of pleasure. Matthew shifted his arm to the other side of her, leaning comfortably and lifting his other hand to stroke her cheek, tracing a finger along her ear as he responded to her deep, searching kiss. His fingers delved into her hair, weaving through it softly until his hand was at the back of her head, holding her to him. Everything else in the world seemed to stop. There was no urgency, no deeper, lustful desires this time; just the pure, elegant beauty of their lips meeting and tasting and kissing, communicating their love with far greater eloquence than words ever could.

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><p>When Mary had washed and dressed, while Matthew's attention was carefully and purposefully diverted to the newspaper, they took breakfast together in the dining room. Mary had soon discovered that, though her clothes were easy enough to don without too much effort (she had only needed to enlist Matthew's assistance once, and he had done his best with blushes and stammers to preserve her modesty), she hadn't the faintest idea how Anna perfected her hair each morning. The dozens of clips she had removed from it the night before seemed to glare at her from the tabletop, challenging her. She picked one or two up, but there seemed so much of her hair to get up with such little things, and she so wanted it to be perfect for today, and… At her loud sigh of frustration, Matthew had quietly suggested that she follow her own advice and call a maid from the hotel desk. She had relented.<p>

Now, with hair perfectly coiffed, she sat across from Matthew, sipping tea with her poached salmon. Her appetite was much improved from yesterday's breakfast.

"I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," she smiled. Matthew glanced up, his eyes dancing in response to her teasing.

"You already know I'm not very fastidious about doing things properly," he mocked gently. "And it would have been a challenge beyond either of us I imagine, to adhere to the tradition after having shared a bed together the night before…"

Mary coughed a little and had to put her tea down. She blushed, meeting his gaze darkly.

"I fear you may be right – we were rendered quite powerless against it!"

"I fear so." His voice was deep and rich, and the dark glimmer of desire in his eyes sent a shiver through Mary.

Matthew held her eyes a moment longer, then licked his lips and glanced down to his pocket watch. "We'd better be going, soon – I'd just like to go up to the room first and make sure I have everything we need."

"Of course. I'll come up too." Mary finished her tea, and delicately dabbed her napkin to her lips. "But we mustn't be too long – I do expect you to get me to the church on time, Matthew!"

Matthew chuckled and rose to his feet. Mary did the same, and took his arm happily. After all their trials and errors, their mistakes, their misinterpretations, their fights and frustrations… They had reached the other side. They understood each other, they knew each other, they loved each other. Despite everything, for this beautiful day, happiness was possible.

Upstairs, the documents they needed were tucked safely into Matthew's jacket pocket. As he checked one last time that nothing they'd need had been left, Mary adjusted her hat in the mirror. Satisfied at last, she turned to Matthew, who now stood in the doorway, and graced him with a dazzling smile.

They made their way downstairs, arm in arm, chatting contentedly. As they reached the foot of the stairs and passed through the door into the lobby, the desk clerk's voice floated through and suddenly pierced into their awareness.

"…on their way out, but I will let Mr and Mrs Crawley know you're here."

"I beg your pardon?"

Matthew's blood ran cold, and he felt Mary grip his arm tighter. They froze, unable to turn back, afraid to continue, but it was too late.

"Ah," the clerk blithely continued. "It seems you have just caught them," and gestured in their direction.

There was nothing they could do.

"Mother –"

"Cousin Isobel!" They chorused in exclamation.

Mary suddenly realised how tightly she was clutching Matthew's arm, and forced herself to let go. Her hands dropped in front of her, clasping together tightly as she forced a tight, nervous smile.

"Hello," Isobel smiled, though her face was a picture of confusion and surprise.

"Mother, what on earth are you doing here?" Matthew stammered as he ushered her into the quieter lounge. He shook his head, suddenly realising the bluntness of his greeting. He kissed her cheek out of habit. "Sorry – I'm surprised, that's all."

"As am I, Matthew!" Isobel exclaimed. She looked at the pair of them appraisingly, one eyebrow raised, then addressed Mary. "I've come because your parents were, understandably, quite unsure of the idea of you traipsing around Manchester alone for longer than a day with no provisions or assistance!"

"But they knew I was looking for Matthew, and was quite determined to –"

"And I see you have found him!"

"I… Yes!" Mary struggled for words, as her chest rose and fell rapidly with shallow, nervous breaths.

Isobel continued. "Now, while I was perfectly sure you were capable of some independent activity, your parents were not, and so I took the excuse of visiting friends with the promise of looking out for you. I have brought these –" (she held out a small case of clothes, which Mary took) "– though, I wonder if you shall need them now you've achieved what you came here for?"

Mary opened her mouth to reply, but no words came, and her lips closed again. She looked to Matthew desperately.

"Mother, I –"

"And dare I enquire," Isobel cut him off sharply, "why the man at the desk seemed to be under the impression that you are married? I wasn't aware that was the state of things between you."

"I told them I was Matthew's wife so they'd tell me whether he was staying here," Mary said firmly, though her tone concealed the barest trace of shame at her deception.

"I see." Isobel pursed her lips. Something wasn't right; there was something very definitely odd about the way they were behaving. Mary was gripping the case so hard her knuckles were white, and Matthew was shifting very uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Mother, we're not married, of course. Not – not yet." He sighed; they didn't have time for this. He looked pointedly at Mary. "Mary, the cab will be outside, could you…"

"Of course!" Mary suddenly seemed to recover herself. She gave Matthew a distinct nod, and a flash of a smile. Her silent permission; to explain, to invite. It was too late for anything else. She understood that Matthew needed this chance with his mother, and gladly gave it. "I'll give you a moment – thank you, Isobel, for these – excuse me."

As she smiled thinly and slipped out, Isobel watched her, puzzling over their odd attitude of haste. She looked back to Matthew, then, with the distinctly chiding expression of a parent as his last words – _not yet_ – played in her mind.

"What on earth do you mean by that, Matthew?"

He gestured to his mother to sit down and pulled up a chair across from her. He sat, and leaned eagerly forwards, talking quickly.

"Please, Mother, just let me explain. You already know Mary came with the intention of stopping me from joining up. She was too late for that, but… we talked, a lot, and I learnt things – I understand how things were, now. There were things I shan't go into here but it's alright, it's all quite behind us. And with me leaving on Friday, and all the uncertainty that comes with that – we wanted to be married. I obtained a license; I'm sorry, but we're just on our way to the church."

Isobel's eyebrows rose sharply. A look of shock, and of dismay, crossed her face.

"Matthew, I don't… When were you going to tell me this?"

Matthew sighed heavily. "You know that you would have protested, said it was rash, and as for Lord and Lady Grantham – it never could have happened, not in time." Isobel's lips parted in protest, but Matthew carried on. "I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, but I hoped you would understand in time. Believe me, Mother, I would not be doing this if I had the slightest doubt at all. Now," he looked at his watch, then up, his expression fond but determined. "I must go, or we'll miss our chance. I'd – be delighted, if you could give this your blessing and come with us, you'd be most welcome to. And I'll understand if you won't, but I have made my decision, and am going to marry Mary."

He stood up decisively. Isobel frowned, motionless for a moment as she tried to grasp Matthew's words. The last she had known, her son had been running, heartbroken and angry, and Mary had shown him little sign of care. Within mere days, could they be so sure about each other? Her stomach churned in anguish as she realised that, had she not happened upon them now, her son had been fully prepared to marry without her knowledge. But… Matthew had evidently made his decision. Now she had been granted this chance… She stood, and took Matthew's arm.

"I shan't pretend that I am not shocked, Matthew, and injured that you would have kept this from me," she said as she went with him outside.

"I know. I'm sorry, but –"

"But," she cut across him. "Of course, of course I shall see you married, if you will now deem to allow me." As they reached the cab, Mary waiting patiently by its side, Isobel gave them both a small, tight smile. "And though I might hold my reservations about the wisdom of this – I see you are quite determined, and shall concede to trust that you know your own hearts."

"Thank you, Mother," Matthew sighed in relief.

They reached the church with mere minutes to spare. To Mary's great relief, Isobel appeared to have given them her blessing, having soon realised that it was not her place, not today, to dampen their happiness with her own judgements. Indeed, it was clear to Isobel even after the short duration of the cab ride that they were utterly sure of each other, and she found her misgivings quickly dissipating. Instead, she concentrated on the blessing of the opportunity that she had stumbled upon them in time to learn of it. She could hardly imagine what Lord and Lady Grantham's reactions would be when they discovered it, but ruefully conceded that the young couple had judged their likely response correct.

Matthew hopped eagerly out of the cab, and held his hand out to help his mother, then Mary. His touch lingered on her hand, and he pulled her close for a moment, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered softly.

"I'm sorry… Thank you."

"It's quite alright," she murmured, her voice hushed. "I'm glad she's here, for you."

She leaned back and smiled, reassuringly, but her lips trembled nervously. Matthew's face shone with adoration and he kissed her, a fleeting brush of his lips to hers.

"I never told you, this morning, that you look beautiful."

A pleasant shiver ran through Mary. "How remiss of you!" Her whisper was laden with affection. She kissed his cheek and grasped his hands tightly between hers. "And now that you have, Matthew, shall you take me to be your wife?"

He laughed, grinned in nervous anticipation, and took her into the little church. It was nestled to the side of a leafy park, deep within the sprawling urban suburbs. As they stepped inside, they were met by three men. Mary quickly learned that these were the Vicar, and two of Matthew's colleagues, Jonathan and Edward.

"You must be Lady Mary," Edward smiled warmly and held his hand out to greet her. Mary smiled graciously, though her eyebrows rose to mock reproach as the young man whistled and winked at Matthew.

Jonathan laughed. "I do apologise for my associate, Lady Mary – many congratulations. Matthew's done well for himself, evidently!"

Mary's laugh sparkled with delight. At the Vicar's urging, they moved to the front of the church, where Edward and Jonathan stood respectfully to the side (after Edward had handed Mary a delicate bouquet of red carnations sprinkled with primroses; Matthew's choice, he assured her), while Isobel took a seat quietly further back.

The church was cool, and quiet. As they made their vows to each other, their words echoed into the still air. Matthew's eyes shone, fixed upon Mary's as he promised himself to her, his rich voice breathless with sincerity and love. Tears filled Mary's eyes, though her words, when it fell to her, were clear and sure. She'd never been more sure of anything in her life. Through it all, they held their hands together, fingers entwined, their desperate grip binding them together in conviction that nothing would break them apart.

She swallowed back tears when Matthew slipped a ring from his pocket, a thin gold band that he slid onto her finger with trembling hands. The silent understanding passed between them that she would cherish it, treasure it, the symbol of their devotion through his absence.

As the Vicar prayed over their joined hands, each sent their own silent prayers up, for thanks, for safekeeping, for comfort, for the faith that he would come back to her.

Matthew's face broke into the purest smile of adoration as finally, she was proclaimed his wife. Mary turned to her husband and, overcome by the love shining in his eyes, leaned up and pressed her lips sweetly to his (much to the appreciation of their few devoted onlookers). For a beautiful, fleeting moment, Matthew kissed her back, squeezing her hands lightly as he felt her lips trembling against his, understanding that she kissed him for fear of weeping if she did not. Happiness flooded through them, and there was no darkness in their world, not this day.

The small group stepped out into the bright August sunlight, with fond kisses and smiles and embraces. Isobel hugged and kissed them both, then clasped their hands together. Her cheek was wet with tears.

"Congratulations, my dears. And thank you." Any doubts she may have had about the wisdom of their decision had been swept away without reserve.

"Oh, Mother…" Matthew beamed and hugged her fondly. "I'm glad you were here," he said softly. Mary rubbed her hand across his back in silent agreement. It was a happy accident, and she thanked Isobel dearly for supporting them. Her own parents, she knew, would not have taken this all so lightly.

"Shall we lunch together?" Mary suggested brightly. Though her world was Matthew, she was so utterly _happy_ that she was quite content for the time to share their joy with these friends.

"Alas," Jonathan said lightly, "I'm afraid our carriage awaits – it's back to the workhouse, for us. But, thank you. And congratulations!"

"Of course," Matthew realised, and shook his and Edward's hands warmly. "Thank you both; I shan't forget your support."

"It was a pleasure, old chap," Edward grinned. "Best of luck with it all, Crawley." With a warm clap on the back, and a kiss for Mary and Isobel, the two friends departed with a wave of their hats.

"Mother?" Matthew looked expectantly at her. "The hotel puts on some quite wonderful roast mutton for luncheon."

"I think, my dear," Isobel rubbed his arm fondly, "that I shall leave you and your delightful wife to it, but thank you." Her lips twitched, with a quirk of her eyebrow. "I shan't imagine that you'll want the distraction of your mother." Matthew's jaw dropped to stammer a protest but, before he was able, Isobel went on. "Mrs Wethering is expecting me, in any case. I'm so very glad to have seen you, and shall look forward to your first letter from training."

"Of course." Matthew smiled nervously. "Thanks, for all of this."

"And Mary," Isobel turned to her daughter-in-law, taking her hand. "I shall telegram your parents and say that you are safe, and well. And please know that you can expect my support when you return."

"Thank you," Mary nodded gratefully, understanding her meaning, and touched by it.

With a final smile and a wave, Isobel hailed a cab and left them.

Matthew turned to his wife, with a breathless smile.

"Well," he breathed. "Alright?"

"Perfectly," she beamed, and kissed him again.

They returned to the hotel, and took lunch together. They did not engage in much conversation, though their eyes and their hands met frequently in unspoken gestures of affection and appreciation. It seemed too much to take in. Only yesterday morning, all had been darkness and despair. Now, they were joined – and their hearts burst with happiness. It was unthinkable, like an impossible, wonderful dream, and they were determined not to think about the moment of waking, not today.

His plate cleared, Matthew put down his cutlery and wiped his lips. With a trembling smile, he looked at Mary, grasping her hand tightly.

"Well, as wedding breakfasts go, I think that was quite satisfactory," he mumbled softly.

"Indeed!" His shyness delighted Mary, and she laughed delicately. "And now that we have finished, what should you like to do, darling?"

Matthew's face slackened, not in the bashfulness of desire as Mary had expected, but into an expression of wonderment and love. "What?" She murmured softly.

Matthew smiled gently. "You've never called me that before."

Mary's heart leapt with love. Hardly able to breathe, she took his hand across the table and pressed it to her lips.

"Oh, my darling, darling Matthew!" She felt as if her face would break apart if she smiled any wider. Tears pricked behind her eyes, as her husband gazed adoringly back at her.

With sudden resolve, he stood, tugging her hand gently to stand beside him. Her breath catching, she looked at him, eyes wide with excitement.

"I think," he slipped his arms snug around her waist and pulled her close, murmuring softly into her ear without care for the stares of other diners, "that I would like to take you upstairs and make love to you. Darling Mary…"

His eyes fluttered closed and his lips brushed against her ear in a tender kiss.

The warm weight of his words were like the sweetest caress. The term of affection spilled deeply from his lips, and the force of emotion behind it made Mary gasp. Her heart ached with love and she felt her knees weaken, causing her to lean her hand on his chest for support.

Moistening her dry lips, she recovered the strength to pull back and meet his eyes, matching his dark gaze with glittering promise. With only the barest sound passing her lips, she whispered.

"Then take me, my love."

**TBC**

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><p><em>AN: Thank you so much for reading!_

_Quick note. It may not even have stuck out to you at all, but just in case it did - Matthew's use of "Thanks", as opposed to "Thank you". I know it sounds a little modern, but for reference, Matthew says "Thanks" to Isobel in Episode 5 (returning home after the dinner), and I felt in this situation he was similarly flustered. So please forgive me, but there is my justification if it did sound odd to you!_

_As ever I'd love to know what you thought! Coming up next, you have masses of smut to look forward to :) Thank you again for reading!_

_Oh! Really last thing. Mary's bouquet. According to Wikipedia, 'The Language of Flowers', red carnations = "Deep romantic love, passion, "My heart aches for you," "Alas; for my poor heart!"". And primroses = "Eternal love". Whether or not Matthew knows that, I don't know, but he is a man of many talents... :)  
><em>


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Thank you so much for your responses to Chapter 4! _

_Well, it's now their wedding afternoon/night... What more do I need to say? ;) _

_Rated M with very good reason... Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

No sooner were the through the door, than Matthew's jacket was flung onto the stand, their shoes kicked off, swiftly followed by Mary's coat and her hat, tossed casually out of the way by Matthew. As they stumbled to the bed in a passionate flurry of desperate kisses and searching hands, Mary felt it crush under her foot. She couldn't have cared less.

She hung her arms around Matthew's neck as he lowered her to the bed. As his warm, welcome weight covered her she sighed happily into his mouth, shifting pleasurably under him. Finally, _finally_… This was right. Everything was heat and softness and warmth, and there was a tender urgency to their embrace. Matthew's hand caressed her cheek as he kissed her, fingers delving into her hair as his tongue swept into her mouth to taste her. She gave a soft moan, arching against him as she tilted her head to kiss him deeper, already tugging his shirt out of his trousers and teasing her hands under to his skin beneath.

The sheets rustled softly under them. Mary pushed gently at Matthew's shoulders and, dragging his lips from hers with a soft slip of friction, he leaned on his elbows and gazed down at her breathlessly. Wetting her lips, tasting him upon her tongue, she reached for his tie and undid it slowly as she held his eyes. It was off, and she tugged his collar open, allowing her fingers to curl down and brush the glimpse of fair hair just underneath. Matthew watched her, his breath catching in his throat at the tender reverence she paid to it.

Once Mary was satisfied, his shirt undone almost to his navel, she ran her palms softly up over his chest, up to his shoulders and his neck til she cupped his face, thumbs tracing over his cheeks and lips.

"Matthew…" She blinked up at him, expression wavering nervously.

"Mm?" His finger played idly over her lips, wondering at their softness. She smiled and nipped lightly at him, earning a deep chuckle in response. She took a breath, and when she spoke, her voice was low and trembled a little.

"I… Have you – ever…"

Matthew ducked his head a little and his lips twitched, colouring with a gentle blush. He paused a moment before answering, with the barest shake of his head.

"No," he whispered. His fingers tickled distractedly at her neck. He'd spent half the morning trying not to think about that very fact, and the fact that she… He licked his lips and smiled shyly, almost apologetically.

Mary smiled. Her face shone with affection.

"I'm glad of it," she said softly, leaning up and placing a tender kiss to his lips. She lingered there a moment, and they eased down together back into the softness of the pillows, Matthew sighing at the friction of her dress against his bare chest.

Mary kissed him deeply, threading her fingers into his hair as she sucked lightly on his bottom lip, tracing her tongue along it. He shivered. She pulled back, met his eyes with a deep flash of desire for a fleeting second, before leaning up to whisper into his ear. "Matthew, darling, you know that I… count myself as entirely yours." She hugged her arm around his waist, stroking his back, smiling as she felt his breath catch against her neck, followed by the brush of his lips as he acknowledged her.

She nudged her shoulder against him, easing him up again, kissing back along his cheek until his face hovered only an inch above hers. Their eyes met, arresting their perception until their whole awareness was each other. They were so close that Mary's lips brushed against his, tickled by his warm breath, as she murmured deeply.

"I _am_ yours, Matthew."

He needed no further encouragement. His eyes flickered darkly to linger on her lips, and he gave himself up to her, moulding his lips to hers and sinking into her intoxicating warmth. Her low moan reverberated into his mouth, and he kissed her deeper, scraping his teeth lightly over her tongue and sucking gently, relishing the taste of her on his lips.

Thought began to dissipate, all thought bar the wondrous awareness of each other and the fact that this was _right_. Lips tasted, breaths gasped, hands roamed, stroking and grasping and learning each place they had not yet known. Matthew undressed her, slowly, savouring each part of newly revealed marble skin with kisses and caresses that made her shiver against him. Her dress was discarded, her corset swiftly dealt with after a brief fumble with the hooks at the front, as Mary encouraged him with eager sighs and the clutch of her hands to his arms and shoulders. Her chemise was hastily thrown off and he groaned aloud at the sight of her. Mary froze, shivered with anticipation under the heat of his gaze, released a shuddering breath as his hands stroked flat over the warm, taut skin of her stomach, up the centre of her chest… His palms slid to cover her breasts, and he groaned again, and so did she, the sounds mingling in the tight air. Her lips parted in a silent gasp, her eyes fluttered shut as she lost herself to his touch, arousal pulsing strong through her veins. Unconsciously she clasped her hands over his, then up his arms to his shoulders, his cheeks, pulling his head down into a fierce, passionate kiss as his hands squeezed, pinched, caressed, every touch bringing a fresh wash of desire. She moaned softly in protest as he dragged his lips away down her chin, though it was lost in a strangled gasp as one of his hands was suddenly replaced by his mouth. Her back arched wildly, forcing herself closer to the moist heat of his tongue which was stroking, over and over her, his lips sucking and teasing her sensitised skin.

She writhed against him, fire building in her until she thought she would burst with it, and then he stopped, trailing his lips and tongue down her abdomen to the top of the silk that covered her. His hands brushed over her hips, down, and slowly, he drew down her silk stockings, first one, then the other, following the path of them with hot kisses down her thighs and all the way to her toes. Mary trembled fiercely, soft whimpers escaping her throat in place of every breath. When that was done, he returned his attentions to her hips, kissing her belly tenderly as he rid her of the last scrap of clothing on her.

Naked under him, she could bear it no longer, the fire in her raging. She grasped his shoulders and pulled him up, up to meet her in a delicious clash of kisses, hurried, desperate, messy kisses that screamed their desire as she tore his shirt from his body. Mary reached for the buckle of his belt, fumbling hurriedly at it as she undid that, then his trousers, distracted by his hands in her hair and, oh, again on her breast. She shoved them down as far as she could, and Matthew helped her, kicking everything off then laying back over her. Mary could feel him, now, pressed against her thigh and she felt again the urgent desire for him to claim her, to possess her, to _love_ her. Matthew kissed her deeper as he shifted, settling between her legs, stealing the briefest heavy glances at her every time he moved his head to mould himself closer.

His kisses paused, lips held delicately to hers by the light tension between them as he eased forwards, upwards, finding her and filling her with a long sigh of release. Mary tensed as he slid into her, then relaxed, lifting her hips to accommodate him further, whispering sweet words of love into his ear as he groaned in pleasure. They began to move together, slowly at first, unsurely, gasping at each new rush of pleasure until they began to find their rhythm. They were finding each other, finding their place, discovering this purest of intimacies that bound them together and fused them, as skin slid against skin with a warm friction that resonated through their bodies.

Everything was heat, and sweat, and skin. Matthew's lips dipped to Mary's neck, sucking gently at where he could feel her pulse flutter under his tongue, tasting the salt of her sweat. Now there was no restraint, no reason to hold back, no reason to deny themselves any of these secret pleasures they had previously only dreamt of.

Every stroke of him within her seemed cleansing to Mary. Every movement, every thrust that drove him deeper within her drove out another shadow of the darkness that had been before. She gasped his name, moaned it softly, claiming him as her own as she welcomed him and met him with eager bucks of her hips. Her hands sought purchase on the sweat-dampened skin of his back, his shoulders, his hips, pressing her palms flat to where she could feel his broad muscles shift under the skin as he thrust against her. Instinctively her legs lifted, hooking over his hips in a desperate effort to draw him impossibly nearer. Their skin seemed to fuse together where their hips met in quickening clashes of heat and friction and desire. His hand traced down, down her side to her waist, over the curve of her hip and up her thigh, hooking under her knee to hold her there.

Matthew's breaths quickened as he lost himself in her, surrendered himself to the encompassing storm of fiery sensation and pulsing desire. He clung to her as his hips flung against her, driving into her, gasping at the almost unbearably sharp pleasure that swept fiercely through him with every desperate thrust. She was his _wife_, and this was _right_; she was sweet and soft and hot and she possessed every fibre of his being and soul.

She trembled underneath him, around him, unable to comprehend anything beyond _him_ and the glorious way he made her feel. His hot groan against her ear and his hands on her body, his deep movements within her whipped up a building flurry of heat; the frantic urgency of his hips pounding into her sent heat spreading through her core, up her belly and down her thighs, pulsing through her and building and building until it overcame her with a sudden rush of unthinkable pleasure. She cried out his name, clutched at him desperately as every muscle deep within her clenched and throbbed in a shuddering wave.

Breaking over his own arousal, the pulse of her around him made Matthew dizzy, her cry of ecstasy sending shockwaves of desire pounding through him.

"I love you…" he gasped breathlessly as felt himself slip, beginning to lose control as his hips slammed wildly into her, ragged groans tearing from his throat with every forced out breath. Faster, sweeter, hotter, and then he crumbled, feeling everything shatter around him into a fire of heat and friction and wonderful, wonderful sensation. He bucked against her, stifled his scream of pleasure into her shoulder, releasing himself into her as he clung to her.

Weakly, they lay trembling together where they had fallen, bodies jerking as tiny spasms rocked through them in the last vestiges of bliss. As the tightness of Mary's legs relaxed around him, Matthew pushed himself to his elbows to look down at her, though his muscles shook from the unfamiliar exertion. He licked his lips and, when her eyes fluttered open at last to meet his gaze with the purest understanding and love, he bent his head and kissed her. She sighed happily and hugged him tight to her, opening her mouth to him and flicking her tongue languidly against his.

They couldn't speak for a long time, could not rally themselves to anything but their sweet embrace. They knew each other, they loved each other, they had given themselves to each other and bound themselves as one in the sweetest way, sealing their commitment and their love. After everything… They were one.

* * *

><p>Reluctantly, they dressed again for dinner. Mary's hair was wild and unkempt from their love-making, and though Matthew tried his best to pin up the disarrayed strands they finally relented to call the maid again. Mary blushed as the young woman fixed her hair, wondering if she somehow knew. She could smell him on her still, taste him on her lips, and the whole room seemed tinged with a faint scent of sweat and sex.<p>

Through dinner, they glanced shyly at each other, wonderingly, relishing in the secret knowledge that when they looked at each other, they knew what lay beneath. It felt almost strange to behave civilly again; Mary longed to reach out to him, to touch him, to stroke her hands over his lean body and brush her lips softly upon his skin. Every time Matthew looked at her, he shivered with the memory of sensation that sent a low, warm pulse of arousal fluttering through him. To hear polite, normal words of conversation pass their lips to each other seemed strange after having moaned the other's name in ecstasy.

Their hands touched across the table, fingers glancing and lacing together. Every mouthful of food seemed bittersweet to Matthew, as though it were covering the taste of her that remained on his tongue… He determined to reclaim her as soon as he could.

When they returned to their room, they undressed again and settled into bed, though it was only early in the evening.

"Matthew?" Mary murmured quietly. She was tucked under his arm and her palm lay on his chest, twisting idly into his hair and down to the little trail on his stomach.

"Darling?"

"Would you please fetch me a glass of water?"

"Of course."

He kissed the top of her head and slid out of the covers. Mary watched him as he walked to the bathroom, lips curving into an indulgent smile as her eyes traced over his back and shoulders, delighting in his nakedness. She heard the tap gurgle and run, and he came back out with glass in hand.

Matthew stopped suddenly, taken aback by the appreciative raise of her eyebrow as he realised that she was staring at him. She had not had a chance properly to _see_, before… Her eyes twinkled darkly, and then he realised her trick. Despite his blush, he took a breath and allowed her gaze, feeling the low stir of heat as her eyes travelled purposefully and slowly over him, lingering where he knew she wanted to look. Then he licked his lips, which quirked into a smile, and came to settle back down next to her.

"You know," he said softly as he lifted his arm for her to curl into him again, "you only had to ask…"

"Oh, don't be silly Matthew!" Her voice was light and sparkling. "That would have been far less fun."

He smiled fondly, lips parting a little as she drew back the covers, and traced her fingers down his abdomen, lower, lightly skimming over him. He sucked in a breath, tensing rigidly as her fingers, then her palm, then her hand, stroked and caressed him. His eyes fluttered shut, a soft groan passing his lips as he hugged his arm tighter around her shoulders. Her palm was soft, warm, gentle… Mary watched her hand with a sort of wondering amazement, feeling quite detached from it but at the same time, so very aware that it was _Matthew_. Fascinated by his arousal, she continued, smiling with a sort of satisfaction as she felt him shift and moan under her touch.

For a brief, wonderful moment, Matthew's head lay back against the headboard as he focussed everything on the intoxicating sensation of her hand on and around him. But he could not simply lie back, the urge to touch her was too great and his hand slowly traced down and over her chest, brushing her long hair out of the way until his hand covered her breast. She gasped, gripping him a little more firmly, and he responded with a slow, sure caress, head beginning to swim in delight. The dizzying concept that now, they _could_… was almost too much to comprehend.

They made love again, slower now, taking the time to savour each new sensation and store it in their memory to hearken to, when memory would be all they had.

When they lay again, trembling in each other's arms they whispered sweet affections, accompanied by soft, tender kisses. They settled down fully into the damp sheets, limbs tangled comfortably together with no restraint this night, and fell contentedly asleep as husband and wife.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I apologise (do I?) that that was basically 2,500 words of smut... More to come in Chapter 6 - they've a whole day before Matthew leaves, yet! As ever, I'd love to know what you thought - reviews will be massively appreciated! Thank you so much :)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Huge, enormous thanks to everyone who's reviewed/alerted/favourited this fic - I appreciate it so much! Thank you :)_

_Apologies for the drop-off in updates - I'm back at work now (teacher) so have less liberty with my time, so I hope you'll forgive me! Huge thanks to EOlivet, who has been endlessly encouraging and helped me with an inspired word choice or two!  
><em>

_Chapter 6. We left them at the end of their wedding night, and they have one full day together before Matthew leaves... I'll give you three guesses._

_I did intend to continue this chapter up to Matthew leaving, to balance out the smut a little, but it sort of got carried away - so I do hope that no-one will hugely object to this being a second chapter of pretty much pure smut (though it's in no way simply a repeat of Chapter 5!)_

_Hope you enjoy...! :)_

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

Bright sunshine pierced the curtains of the hotel window, breaking upon Matthew's back and cheek. He stirred gently. The first thing that seeped into his awareness was the fact that he was warm, so very, comfortably warm, and deliciously lethargic. He remained quite still for a moment, smiling when he felt the light tickle of her hair against his face, listening intently to the gentle sound of her breathing. The deep regularity of it told him that she slept, still. Smiling a little wider, he wondered if perhaps he would always wake before her, and be able to enjoy this little time. His smile then wavered as he remembered that he wouldn't have all that much opportunity to find out. Immediately, he banished the thought from his mind. Not yet, not yet… They had today.

Tentatively, he tested his limbs, finding them welcomingly restrained by how they were entwined with hers. This morning, he felt utterly content in the knowledge that that was perfectly alright. He wriggled closer to her, until his torso was pressed flush against her bare back, feeling the warmth of her skin spread through him. One arm was wrapped snug around her waist, and he tucked the other under his head, raising himself a little on it so that he could look at her a little better. The sheets had twisted and fallen during the night, to lie just over Mary's hips and was entangled between them and over him. He allowed his eyes indulgently to rove over her, lingering on every smooth curve, turning over in his mind the memory of how she had felt. As he looked at her, inhaled her faint, sweet scent, his thumb idly rubbed over her belly. His gaze reached her face again, utterly perfect in sleep, and he leaned forwards and kissed her cheek softly. Shuffling down a little, he kissed along her shoulders, teasing her hair slowly out of the way. Her skin was warm under his hand.

He didn't particularly notice the subtle shift from the idle caress of his thumb, to his whole hand pressed flat rubbing smoothly over her waist. As he continued to nestle his face against her shoulder, he slowly became aware of it, of the light friction, the way her skin slipped under his palm. Matthew decided that he liked it, and reminded himself that he _could_. Last night she had given herself to him, in the most precious, intimate way… He kept on wondering when he would wake up, believing that this couldn't be real, and yet… He knew that it was. Mary, his own Mary, the darling woman lying soft and warm and breathing in his arms was his, and he had license to touch her like this.

Softly, his hand drifted up, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast, then skimmed over her hip. Applying gentle pressure with his fingers, he stroked over the smooth curve and back, then lower to her thighs, rubbing over them. A little sigh of pleasure escaped him, tickling the back of her neck and she shivered, then settled again. Enthralled by the touch of her, Matthew wondered… He propped himself up slightly, leaning over to brush his lips across her ear, then turned his head to look down the length of her body. Holding his breath, he watched his own movements as his fingers traced over her abdomen, lower, then tentatively slipped between her legs. He gasped a little as she wriggled back against him with a tiny murmur of contentment. It seemed incredible, considering what they had done yesterday, how intimately he had known her, but… he had not touched her here, yet, not like this. Barely breathing, he licked his lips and watched how his wrist moved as he lightly stroked her, fingers slipping over the moist warmth he found there in the midst of the thick curls of her hair. Teasing his fingers back, his breath caught as one slipped inside her, and he pressed his lips to her shoulder.

He was utterly enthralled by the intimacy of it, and gradually became aware that Mary was beginning to stir under his touch. She sighed, pressed her hips back against him and licked her lips, though her eyes remained shut… He wondered if she was awake, if she had perhaps been for some time. He continued his tender exploration, dipping in and slipping out and stroking lightly back and forth, and as he did so, the only sound that broke the silence was the rustle of the sheets against her skin as she shifted gently, and an occasional soft moan. He circled a finger and she gasped, involuntarily thrusting back against him. His lips curved into an indulgent smile. She liked it… He carried on.

As his fingers continued their caress, buried in the warmth between her thighs, he eased forward and kissed her ear, tracing the tip of his tongue along its edge. She moaned a little louder, twisting her head towards him. Her hand clutched at the sheet on the mattress in front of her, bunching it up into her hand as he stroked a little faster and kissed behind her ear. His tongue traced her lobe again, and she gasped, writhing back against him, making him groan softly. She wriggled, shifting her leg a little to ease his access, and instinctively ground her hips against his hand. Matthew groaned again, increasing the pressure of his fingers, trailing hot kisses along the back of her shoulders. She was his, utterly and entirely his…

He stroked again, that same, circular motion and her hand shot back and grasped his arm, sliding down to his hand, encouraging him. He carried on. She moaned louder, his name slipping past her lips, as he touched her and she responded in a new, intimate dance. He sped up a little, relishing the depth of her arousal at such a slight touch. He carried on kissing, carried on stroking, a little faster, slipped one finger, then another inside her and eased his hand gently back and forth over her with increasing, unrelenting pressure until she started to tremble. His lips found her ear again and he whispered his love softly to her, and she groaned, shifted her hips in time with his hand, grasping at him and writhing and suddenly she snapped, convulsing around his hand with a breathless cry that carried on and carried on; he didn't stop and she didn't stop until finally, as she bucked fiercely back against him and gripped his arm almost painfully, he slipped his fingers out. She lay gasping, trembling, spent and shattered in the most beautiful way.

Matthew kissed her shoulder again as he trailed his fingers up her stomach, leaving a trail of sticky, warm moisture.

"Good morning, darling," he murmured softly.

She rolled over, and stared at him from under heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks flushed darkly in pleasure. Her gaze was full of tenderness, wonder and love.

"Matthew…" She could barely speak.

He simply smiled at her, and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not as well as I woke!" she exclaimed breathlessly, lips trembling into a languid smile.

"Good." He pressed his lips softly to hers, and hugged his arms around her, relishing the feel of her body flush against him. They lay in contented silence for a little while, Mary still gasping as residual shudders fluttered through her. Eventually, Matthew murmured against her lips, "What would you like to do today, my love?"

Mary leaned back a little and looked at him, properly, for the first time. She took in his sleep-ruffled hair, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw which she traced her finger lightly along, his bare shoulders… She hadn't seen him like this, yesterday. He looked terribly endearing. She smiled.

"I suppose," she said lightly, "that it is our honeymoon?"

"Yes, I suppose it is," he smiled. He hadn't thought of it like that, but, of course it was. This day. He kissed her, and she shifted closer to him, smiling against his lips.

"In that case, Matthew darling… I would very much like to not leave this room all day, and stay with you." Her eyes sparkled; it had never before occurred to her that she could spend an entire day in bed, hair undone, undressed… But she was married, now, was with her husband and they could do whatever at all they liked, here, in this bed, together. Nobody at all could tell them they shouldn't, or stop them, and they could very well do just as they wished. And what she wished was to remain in bed with her darling husband _Matthew_, curled happily into him like this.

"That seems perfectly alright," Matthew whispered as he kissed her again. He loved to kiss her. Already, he didn't know how he'd survive without it, how he _had_ managed to survive without it before he knew her like this… After a long, sweet moment, he eased back and moistened his lips. "Though," he mused aloud as he wondered what the time was, "don't you think you'll want to eat, at some point?"

Mary suddenly grinned impishly.

"I suppose I shall," she breathed; though her only action was to kiss him again, easing him back onto the pillows as she shuffled to lean over him, determined immediately to repay the favour he had already showed her that morning.

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><p>Marriage, Mary decided, was more wonderful than she could have imagined. She could never, never have imagined <em>this<em>. Such love, such intimacy, such _comfort_ – she'd always imagined perhaps that her _husband_ would be some stiff gentleman whom she would sit with for dinner and smile charmingly at and ask him how his day had been, attending balls and events and posing the perfect picture of marital contentment. But it had always seemed a cold prospect; an expected one to which she of course would have complied, but… this, _Matthew_, was so very, very different.

It was impossible, how much she loved him. She loved him so much; it was like a physical ache, constantly longing to be fulfilled. She just wanted to be near him – touch him, see him, kiss him, breathe him in, just touch him… And it thrilled her, how her modesty vanished so easily in front of him. It was incredible, when she thought of… though she tried not to think that, but the awareness of how very different it had been… She'd wanted to hide herself, had been terrified to expose herself, shied away from him and had needed to be coaxed… But so easily, so quickly, so naturally, before Matthew she had no shame at all, no fear for him to see her, every part of her and her entirely unguarded response to him.

As she lay tucked into his side, the very thought of him not being beside her, so close and near enough to touch and reach out to, seemed unthinkable. And she would not think about it. She refused to. They talked, and touched, and kissed, and talked some more, obstinately refusing to touch upon the topic, living for this one day in blissful denial of the future. Today, they were together (so completely, beautifully together), and that was enough.

Eventually, though, Mary began to wonder about the wisdom of staying in bed _all_ day. She had never done so in her life, except for when ill; and then there had always been someone bringing her food and tea… But today she was not ill, and there was no-one to bring her (them) food, or tea.

Matthew was halfway through recounting the story of how he'd learnt to ride the bicycle when Mary's stomach grumbled, loudly. He broke off into a delighted chuckle as she blushed, pressing her hand over her belly.

"I'm sorry, Matthew!"

"It's quite alright, darling," he laughed, hugging her against him and placing a soft kiss to her forehead. "We've not had breakfast, after all." He looked over her shoulder at the clock on the bedside cabinet, and realised it was well after midday.

"I don't know if I've ever not had breakfast," Mary wondered aloud.

"There's a first time for everything!" Matthew smiled, allowing his thoughts to linger on all the things he'd discovered for the first time in the last day alone…

Mary's stomach rumbled again, louder this time. She pursed her lips in annoyance.

Matthew leaned back and looked seriously at her. "I'll go and get some food."

"No, Matthew –" Mary began to protest, not wanting to leave this blissful cocoon of warmth and comfort in his arms.

"Yes, Mary. We needn't go for lunch or anything as proper as that – there are some shops in the next street along, it'll only take me a moment to get some things. It won't be much, but –" He didn't want to leave, either.

"I'll come with you."

"No, darling – by the time you're dressed and presentable," his voice licked over the word in a deliciously suggestive manner, "you'll have expired from hunger. I'll only be a moment – there's really no need. Stay here, and… keep the bed warm for me."

Mary gasped a little intake of breath at the boldness of his words, then instantly wondered how it could possibly shock her, after what they had… She sighed happily, lips curving into a gentle smile.

"I will."

She watched him stand up, stretch, noticing the way his muscles moved under his skin. She adored his body. She would never have admitted that she had imagined it, many times, what he might look like under the primness of his jacket and shirt, and trousers… But now, she _knew_, and in her eyes he was utterly perfect. Today, he had no shyness about his undress, as he stooped in front of her to pick his clothes from the floor where they had scattered last night. Mary smiled indulgently.

As soon as he'd closed the door behind him, after kissing her swiftly goodbye, Mary missed him. She sat with her knees hugged under her chin, and tried not to think about how empty and quiet the room already seemed without his presence.

After a moment, she got up. Her toe immediately brushed against her hat, where it lay crushed on the floor. She remembered, with a sharp intake of breath.

Padding across the room, she drew instinctively for some reason to his packing case. Her hands hovered over it; it was open and not at all hidden, but… Licking her lips, she reached and picked up the shirt flung just inside. He had put on a clean one to go out just now, this was the shirt he'd picked from the floor, the one she'd cast off him in passion last night, that he'd worn as he became her husband… She held it to her face, pressing her eyes closed and inhaling deeply. His scent washed over her, warm and masculine and so very _him_. Before thinking about it very much at all, she stuffed it into the small case that Isobel had brought of her things, driven by the subconscious awareness that she would need something of his to cling to.

It was not long before Matthew returned, clutching a large paper bag which contained enough food to sustain them, for today, at least. He'd bought fruit, and cheese, and bread, and cold meats, and had even thought to ask the hotel desk if he might borrow a plate or two and a knife. If they wondered at all why on earth he might be wanting to take food like this in his room, they did not show it.

At Mary's insistence, he undressed again before settling back into bed with her. They ate, just a little, making sure to save enough for later. Matthew did not want to leave her again.

He leaned over to the bedside cabinet, and fumbled in the bag. When he turned back to Mary, he beamed proudly at the plate in his hands, upon which sat two creamy slices of raspberry torte. At Mary's delighted expression, he shrugged gently.

"We didn't have a wedding cake," he said simply, providing all the explanation he needed.

Mary threw her arms around his neck (carefully, avoiding the cake) and kissed him.

The torte was light, the cream thick and delicious. Mary ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful with immense pleasure, closing her eyes and humming softly in appreciation. It occurred, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was fast becoming almost worryingly open in expressing her pleasure in front of Matthew – she would never have behaved such at home, unless alone!

When her eyes opened, as she swallowed, she saw that he was watching her and grinning, his eyes sparkling boyishly. She blushed.

She could not have explained herself, if pressed – perhaps she might have blamed the sheer intoxication of having discovered Matthew's love so suddenly and so deeply, in so many, unthinkable ways – but some primal urge deep within her kicked, and without thinking about it she gathered a large dollop of cream onto her finger and swept it onto his nose.

Matthew gasped, taken aback, and Mary stared at him in a sort of shock at herself, lips parted. It only took Matthew a moment to recover. His brow furrowed into a teasing frown and he delved his finger into the cream on his plate. He raised it, but before he could reach her nose Mary had caught his wrist… and her lips closed around his finger. Matthew gasped, a little pang of desire shooting down through him as the hot, moist warmth of her mouth covered his skin. Her tongue slid roughly along his finger, and he groaned, feeling the friction of her lips… Tasting him and running her lips up, then down again, licking off every remnant, sucking lightly with her eyes closed, savouring the feel of his skin in her mouth. Matthew couldn't tear his eyes from her, watching her lips work over his finger, then another, that had not even touched the cream… He groaned, softly, and licked his lips.

He pulled his hand from her grasp. She looked a little affronted, but he just grinned mischievously and removed her plate, then pushed her gently down onto the bed. She gasped and glared in a mock frown at him but did not protest. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her fingers twitched by her side as she watched him in breathless anticipation, wondering what more he could possibly do to thrill her than he had already done (for the look in his eyes promised that he would). Her hand near to him grasped his knee as he knelt beside her.

Matthew picked up his plate. Eating his cake, normally, at least, was quite forgotten. With a look of studied concentration on his face, he dipped his finger once into the cream, and wiped it in a line down the centre of her chest. Her brows rose sharply, and when he lowered his head and began to work his tongue over the cream and her skin, she gasped and closed her eyes. A pause. More cream, this time… on her breast, and again his tongue, stroking hot over her and then his lips, sucking up every last trace, and then carrying on anyway. Her hand grasped his knee tighter, her other bunched into the sheets. She would never know how, how he seemed to know just exactly what to do and did it so naturally, instinctively finding what pleasured her…

He raised his head, and kissed her lips, teasing his tongue into her mouth and tasting the sweetness on her own. She moaned, going to put her arms around him but he leaned away. She gave a little hum of dissatisfaction, but it quickly faded to breathlessness as he piled another fingerful of cream into her navel.

She felt his breath, hot on her stomach, and then she gasped sharply again as his tongue swept into the cream, licking it out of the dip. This time, he was unsatisfied with only that and carried on kissing her, pressing his lips in hot, open-mouthed kisses all over her belly and over to her hips. He set her skin alight, and a tiny moan of need slipped from her lips as she quite unconsciously shifted her hips up, desperately seeking satisfaction to the fire of arousal he stoked in her.

Matthew stroked his hands along her thighs, smiling as his mouth covered her skin. The thrill of her pleasure, of knowing that it was he who caused it, such pleasure… was almost more arousing than the act itself. He couldn't get enough of her, wanted to please her and touch her and love her, ever more desperately… His hands tightened on her thighs, and he felt his chin brush against the top of the dark, curling hair above the precious depths of her… He felt her hips shift against him, and he wondered…

Earlier, he had sought her with his fingers, and now, he gently eased her thighs apart and sought her with his mouth. She let out a strangled yelp, her hips bucked sharply upwards and her hand clutched at his hair, but somehow he knew by now that this was a response of pleasure. She tasted… sweet, and was hot and pulsing against his lips… He shifted back and looked at her, had not seen this place yet, and was struck by her strange, intimate beauty. He pressed his lips to her again, and allowed his eyes to close as instinct swallowed his thought.

Mary gasped, her hands thrashing between clutching at the sheets and his hair, wanting to hold him there, push him away, hold him there more, it was so exquisite it was almost unbearable and then… his tongue touched her and a short, muffled scream tore from her throat, it was too much… She pressed her head back against the pillows and squeezed her eyes shut, panting and gasping and trying desperately to hold on to _something_ before she was swept entirely away. His tongue echoed the movements of his fingers, earlier, stroking and flicking and delving in ways that she could never have imagined, it was unthinkable… She felt his fingers dig into her hips as she bucked harder against him, groaning as she knocked him away for a moment then his tongue found her again, his tongue and his lips and his fingers, practising what they had learnt earlier and easing into her, stroking in time with his tongue in the most unthinkable way… Over and over, faster, unrelenting until the fire in her built and flamed and stormed, drowning her in an encompassing wave of sensation and pleasure as she came apart at his touch with a long, loud moan of release.

Gasping slightly, Matthew ran his tongue over her again, grinning at the way she jolted, kissed her again, then slowly eased up to lean over her. Eventually, her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed at him in utter, satiated adoration. His eyes glittered happily, curling his arms around her as he reflected again on the beautiful awareness that the warm glow exuding from her had been caused by him, and oh, how he _wanted_ to please her like this, for the rest of his days…

Mary grinned languidly up at him, tracing her finger lightly over his lips, her breath catching slightly as she noticed how all around his mouth glistened slightly. Her eyes darkened as he lowered his face and kissed her, kissed her so tenderly, and he tasted so… She gasped a little as she realised what it was, and pressed herself closer to him.

As they continued to kiss, relishing in each other's warmth, they shifted, wriggled closer together, somehow rolled. Mary lay above him now, and she eased back from his kiss, looking tenderly into his eyes which were clouded with passion.

"Matthew, darling…" She breathed, words trailing off uselessly. She couldn't, just couldn't, express it. Her fingers brushed softly over his cheek. "I love you," she finished, simply.

He smiled. "I know."

Somehow, that meant more to her than anything else. It may have taken her too long, to realise it, to express it, to tell him… Far too long, but… now he _knew_. And that was the dearest thing.

She kissed him, then eased back to her knees. Her hand was resting lightly on his thigh, and she looked over him, tracing her gaze slowly over his every feature. She saw how his chest dipped shallowly as his breath came quicker, saw his pulse flutter at his throat. His eyes glinted darkly, though his expression was serious, and suddenly she knew what he was thinking. His tongue passed over his lips, and Mary felt faint.

Her hand grazed softly up his thigh, to the top of it, stroking over his hip, then belly, then down… His need was obvious, already, and she passed her palm over him. His whole body shuddered, but his eyes remained locked with hers.

He had been so _good_ to her. His love was beyond her comprehension, and how he expressed it… He had loved her, known her, given himself to her in so many ways with his hands and his tongue and his body... It was unthinkable, and yet so very right, and Mary felt a sudden, deep surge of love quite beyond anything she had yet experienced. This love, this marriage, her husband… She wanted to please him, wanted to make him soar and shatter as he could make her, over and over.

Matthew swallowed thickly, his breath already quickening to shallow pants as he grasped the meaning in her gaze. He reached out and traced his finger around her jaw, over her lips… Fighting hard to keep his eyes open and watch her as anticipation fired deep within him, he expelled a soft groan as she bent and lowered her mouth to him.

* * *

><p>Later, they ate, the rest of the food he had collected earlier. It was late, now; the day seemed to have passed in a delicious blur of love-making and talking, and simply lying content in each other's arms. It was the most blissfully perfect day either of them could have imagined.<p>

"Darling," Mary murmured softly. Her head lay against his chest and she was curled against him, arm draped over his waist.

"Mm?"

"Read to me."

"I'm sorry?"

"Read something to me. Talk to me." Mary had never thought that something as simple as a voice could be quite so affecting. She loved the way he spoke. The low richness of his tone washed over her, caressed her, stirred her. She knew… yes, she knew that she must lose it for a while, with him, and so she wanted to hear him now, to burn his words and his voice into her mind to cherish in his absence. She was too tired, though, to make conversation now; and so the natural solution seemed to her to be for him to read to her.

She scratched her finger lightly against him, and mumbled, "It's that or sing to me, Matthew… I leave it up to you."

Realising her lethargy, he smiled warmly. She baffled him, though pleasantly, and he knew somewhere within him that he would never had denied her anyway.

I'm afraid there's only this." He waved the Bible, as appeared customarily in hotels, he knew, under her nose.

"Oh." Her eyes fluttered sleepily. "That will be perfectly alright, darling."

"Alright."

He held the Bible in one hand under the spine, as his other arm was curled around Mary's shoulders. It fell open. He looked – he saw at the top of the page that it lay open at Song of Solomon. His eyebrow raised a little; it seemed somehow appropriate.

Pressing a kiss tenderly to the top of her head, he lay his cheek there and began to read, his voice low and soothing. He read until he felt her breathing slow into sleep. Softly, he closed the book and placed it back onto the nightstand, before shuffling awkwardly to lie down. Mary hummed softly, and stirred, repositioning herself against him.

Matthew hugged his arms around her, letting her fill every sense. He savoured her, trying desperately not to think about the morning. Tonight, he would hold her and love her, his own darling wife. _Mary_. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed to match hers, his arms around her relaxed a little. Even in sleep, they were perfectly attuned.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! Now that their honeymoon is out of the way, I promise that the story proper will get going again sharpish in the next chapter. As ever, I'd love to know what you thought - any feeback is always hugely appreciated! Thank you so much :)_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _Chapter 7! Thank you so, so much for your responses to chapter 6, I was genuinely worried about out-smutting myself there! I actually found it quite difficult to get OUT of smut-head for this chapter, lol... Ooops. But anyway, the story 'proper' doth continue herein._

_Massive thanks to Silverduck and Eolivet for making sure I was well enough back into decent dialogue-writing mode!_

_I hope you enjoy! :)_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

It was not yet sunrise. Mary lay awake, as she had been for what felt like hours. Underneath her cheek, she could feel the gentle rise and fall of Matthew's chest. The dream was coming to an end, she was so painfully aware, and she wanted to be awake to savour him as much as she could in the few hours they had left.

She shifted a little, shuffled onto her front with her arms folded on his chest, chin resting on them, looking up at his peaceful face. Dawn was just beginning to give a pale tint to the moonlight, falling in pools of light and shadow across his features. He stirred, grunted softly and licked his lips in his sleep. Mary smiled. Awkwardly, she rested her forearms on the bed and pushed herself a little higher, so that she could see him properly. His hand rested up on the pillow by his face; his fingers and lips twitching gently, and she could see how his eyelids flickered as his eyes moved under them. She'd never seen anyone so deeply asleep, this closely… He was utterly beautiful.

With a feather-light touch, she traced her finger across his lips. She marvelled at how soft they were, and then kissed him. Utterly unable to resist him, even if he was asleep, she sucked gently on his lower lip with a soft hum of appreciation.

It didn't take long, under her tender attentions, for Matthew to stir into awareness. Mary slowly realised it when she felt his lips part under hers… Without a sound, the hand by his face lifted to clasp her cheek, as his other arm wrapped warmly over her back and around her waist, pulling her closer.

As they moved together, bodies flush and joined in intimacy under the breaking sunrise, there hovered between them an unspoken awareness that this would be the last time. Their hips rose and fell instinctively in time, every slow, deep thrust heighted by a quiet desperation; a passion, a burning need to treasure and keep the sensation of every last touch. They clung to each other, lips and hands burning across skin… The only sounds breaking the heavy morning quiet were soft gasps and sighs, the rustle of the sheets under and around them and the low, rhythmic creak of the bed as they surrendered their bodies and hearts. Neither could bear the thought of it ending.

Finally, in a tender, beautiful clash of hips, skin, sweat, arms, lips, chests… they shattered, released, came to pieces and lost sense of all else but one another, their cries of passion ringing loud in the still air. They clung, shaking, to each other as they calmed, terrified to let go, to let it end... Matthew eventually shifted up a little, to gaze adoringly down at his wife, his breath stolen away by the beauty of her gently flushed cheeks and hooded eyes, her languid smile. It was an image he would cherish. It was only when her thumb brushed across his damp cheek that he realised any tears had escaped... Slowly, he kissed her, and for a long time they remained locked together, unable to rouse themselves to part.

Despite their most fervent wishes, though, time pressed on. At last, Matthew knew they could wait no longer.

"Mary, we must –"

"I know," she interrupted him. She knew, she did not need to hear it. "I know."

They rose. They watched each other dress, stealing glimpses of skin as each part disappeared beneath cotton and fabric and clasps and buttons. Matthew brushed Mary's hair, which was tangled and knotted from a day's inattention, meeting her eyes in the mirror as his fingers and the brush ran carefully through it.

While Mary rang for the maid to fix her hair up, Matthew went to sort through his things. Mary glanced over, pulse fluttering a little as he rifled through his case with a frown.

"Darling, have you seen my –" He stopped suddenly and looked at her; his expression flickered and softened. "Do you know, it doesn't matter."

When they were at last ready, cases sent down with the maid, they paused by the door.

"I keep telling myself it's rather silly to wish we could stay," Mary said softly. Matthew smiled, rubbing his hand over her back. It felt as though this room had been their cocoon, a bubble quite separate to the rest of the world, in which nothing had been able to touch their happiness in each other. To be leaving it – leaving the dream, returning to real life – felt like the hardest thing.

"If it is silly, then I'm a fool," Matthew murmured. He turned her to face him. "Mary, I… Thank you."

"What on earth for?" She had driven him away, to the army. What could he possibly thank her for? He smiled, though, grasping her hands between them.

"For…" He chuckled dryly, aware of how saccharine it sounded, and clasped her hands a little tighter. "For making me happier than I knew I could be."

Mary could make no reply but to bite back a sob, throw her arms around his neck and kiss him fiercely. Oh, if only she could express how happy he made her! But she knew, as his arms tightened around her waist and he smiled against her lips, that he knew.

Picking at her breakfast, Mary's appetite had returned to the level of enthusiasm she had mustered before rediscovering Matthew. He eyed her in concern, knowing that any attempt at reassurance would probably be useless, but determined to try anyway.

"Please try and eat, darling. If you eat this little you'll fade away – I'd rather like a wife to come home to, when I return!"

Mary laughed in spite of herself, and dutifully forced another mouthful down. But she didn't want to eat, she was painfully aware of the passing time and wanted to do nothing but cling to Matthew and make him stay.

"Don't worry, dear, I'm sure your mother, at the very least, would never let that happen," she raised a weak smile.

Silence fell for a little while again, until Mary let her fork drop with a clatter.

"I'm so sorry, Matthew," she sighed, twisting her hands together just above the table. Matthew paused mid-mouthful and swallowed quickly, leaning towards her at the seriousness of her expression.

"Mary, you've nothing to –"

"Haven't I!" Her exclamation was louder than she intended, and she hushed her voice against the glances of other guests. "I… drove you to this."

"No –"

"Yes! You would have stayed, wouldn't you? You told me so yourself." His pained words at the garden party rang fresh in her ears. "If I'd accepted you, if I'd have had the courage to tell you what I needed to, you'd have stayed. That means it is my fault you're committed to leave now." She bit her lip and looked sorrowfully at him.

Matthew dipped his head and raised his eyes to hers, his gaze full of sincerity. Reaching across the table, he took her hand and clutched it tightly, rubbing his thumb reassuringly across her knuckles.

"Perhaps, when you put it so bluntly as that. But Mary, there were many reasons besides, and… I'm glad of it."

"What?"

"I'm glad of it."

"How can you –"

"Because if I wasn't leaving now – we wouldn't be here now. We wouldn't have… shared what we have, you wouldn't already be my wife. Darling, I'm thankful for it."

Mary smiled, sadly.

"I'm glad of those things too, dear Matthew – Lord, you know I am! I just… wish I could keep you."

She had wondered, perhaps, if it had been a mistake to have loved him so intensely, this last day or so. To have loved him, and known him, so intimately and so much… It made the prospect of _not_ having him any more all that much sorer. She loved him, she wanted him, so desperately… Even now, sitting simply the other side of the table, she craved him. If they had simply _talked_, agreed their affection and promised themselves to each other upon his return, if she hadn't have _known_ him… To let him go might be easier. And yet… loving Matthew was the dearest, sweetest, most overwhelming bliss she had ever felt, far surpassing any fancy of her imagination, and she knew beyond doubt that she would never have changed it.

As they travelled to the station, she held tightly to his hand, savouring every last touch of him that she could snatch. Her heart pounded harder the nearer they drew. How could she let him go? They talked now, quietly, about his training, where he'd be, what he'd be doing – reality was snapping at their heels, now, and there seemed no longer any need to avoid it.

They stood on the platform, waiting for the train, embracing tightly. They had only minutes.

"I keep telling myself it's rather silly to wish you didn't have to go," Mary whispered against his neck, in echo of her earlier words. Matthew held her tighter, and kissed just behind her ear.

"At least you needn't fear for me, darling – I'm only training, I shan't be in any danger at all." The unspoken word, 'yet', hung heavily between them. For now, he'd be safe. For now.

"What consolation!" Mary laughed humourlessly. That wasn't fair, it _was_ a consolation… If only a small one. "I shall miss you, dearest Matthew, so very, very much."

"I know, my love." After having been so blissfully _together_, the thought of being apart now was unbearable. Matthew leaned back a little and gazed deeply at her. "What are you going to tell your parents?"

"Oh, I shall deal with them," Mary brushed him off. She didn't want to think about that now. Suddenly, a low whistle sounded, accompanied by a faint chug of steam – her pulse raced, she felt as though she couldn't breathe. "Write to me, darling?"

"Of course," he answered, then kissed her deeply. They could hear the train draw closer, approach the platform, but for a few moments more they ignored it, wrapped in each other. Mary needed no encouragement to open her mouth to him, and gave a soft murmur of contentment as his tongue glanced against hers, wilfully ignoring any likely stares and tuts from passers-by. Didn't they understand he was going? Holding on as long as they could, they allowed their kiss to express more purely the love and longing that simply could not be expressed in words.

Matthew pulled back, reluctantly, at the sound of doors opening. It wasn't any good; he kissed her again. And again, and once more, pressing his lips lingeringly to hers. When he drew back, eyes clouded with inexpressible emotion, taking ragged, deep breaths, he had to physically step away to break the spell. He clutched her hand, still, their last concession – squeezed once, pressing a kiss to the back of it – then turned and dashed onto the train. If he hesitated at all, he could not have left her. Mary gasped as his fingers slipped from hers and she lost sight of him, but it wasn't long before he appeared at a nearby window, leaning slightly out. She reached up and grasped his hand.

"Matthew – darling, I love you." She fought to blink back her tears.

"I love you."

That was it; there was nothing else to say. Whistles blew, doors slammed, steam hissed from the engines. With a sharp jolt, the train carriage moved off, dragging Matthew's fingers from Mary's. She took a step forwards, but no more – it was too much – and watched as silent tears fell down her cheek, watched as he continued to gaze at her and blow a kiss to her before the clouds of steam obscured him.

He was gone. She was alone.

Mary shook her head fiercely, and brushed away her tears. It wasn't as though he were going to _fight_, yet… But the point remained, that he was gone, he would not be with her, and now she somehow had to manage for however many months he might be away with only the memory of his touch, his scent, his voice, his kiss.

Her own train was due in only ten minutes or so. Matthew had shown her earlier the board that denoted the platform she'd need, and she found it again now and made her way there with no problems. Sitting waiting, on the little bench at the side of the platform, she distracted herself by watching the people go by. People arriving, leaving, meeting and parting… Wondering where each of them was headed, whether they felt as empty as she, or not. Though there was plenty of noise, a cacophony in fact, it seemed as though she could only hear silence, without Matthew there to talk to. She had been his wife for only two days, but the intensity of those two days had led her to depend on him. Oh, how she loved him.

She boarded the train, when it came, and duly produced her ticket for inspection. She wondered if her parents would have sent Branson to meet her. The prospect of returning under the care of her parents, to how things always had been, seemed ludicrous now. She was married! Things couldn't possibly be the same. But she was without her husband, they were without their own home – she realised, sadly, that with Matthew away, their marriage made very little difference to her practical life. The thought saddened her.

Perhaps, she wondered, she shouldn't tell them at all; not if it made no real difference… It might be easier, that way. But no, that was even more ludicrous. For he'd return, and then it could not be hidden, and in any case she had no shame in it. Her parents might well think it was all terribly improper, but she knew they had done nothing wrong, and what did she care for what they thought? They could not change it, now, could not take away from her what she and Matthew had shared.

Still, as the train drew in to the little station in Downton village, Mary found her heart beginning to thud uncomfortably in her chest. She stepped out and looked around; ah, yes, Branson was there. She smiled overly brightly at him, as he took her valise and put it onto the car.

"If you'll pardon me asking, my Lady, did you find Mr Crawley?" Branson asked over his shoulder as they drove through the village.

It took Mary a moment to answer, distracted as they passed Crawley House on the right. Her husband's home… The chauffer's question registered and she looked vaguely towards him in the mirror, smiling tremulously.

"I did, yes. Thank you." She offered no further comment.

"I'm glad to hear it, my Lady – and I hope you met favourably." She may have found him, of course, but who was to say any success had come from it? Mary raised an eyebrow, her smile unreadable.

"We did, thank you Branson."

The tone in her voice signalled a clear end to the conversation, which Branson duly respected.

As soon as Mary stepped through the door, she saw her father walking from the library.

"Mary, dear! Branson met you alright from the train? How was everything?"

"Perfectly fine, Papa," Mary breezed as she handed her hat, coat and gloves to Carson. "Though really, it was a bit much to send Cousin Isobel after me – I was able to manage perfectly well alone!"

Robert chuckled deeply, giving his daughter a fleeting kiss on the cheek.

"Well, better safe than sorry, we thought. She found you alright, then?"

"Yes, she did." Mary smiled at the memory of Isobel's unexpected appearance on Wednesday, which had, after all, been welcome.

"Good. And what of Matthew? You said you'd get the Friday train at the latest, if you hadn't found him yet. Your dear Mama was quite alarmed at the thought of you traipsing around Manchester by yourself. Really, I wish you had taken Branson."

"Papa! I'm back without harm, aren't I?" Already, she was being treated as a child. She hated it. She clasped her hands together to settle her nerves, being careful for the moment to cover her wedding band. "Where is Mama? I'd like to tell you together how I got on."

Robert frowned, but nodded. Mary had always been cryptic.

"Of course, dear. I believe she's in the morning room upstairs."

Mary smiled, brightly, and they went up together. Oh, what she would have given to have Matthew by her side. As soon as they entered the sunlit room, Cora rose delightedly.

"Mary! Darling, I'm so relieved you're back safe!"

"Mama…" Mary sighed as her mother embraced her. As Cora drew back, Mary realised that Edith and Sybil were also present, and her youngest sister jumped up to welcome her.

"Now, Mary," Robert tried to settle them all. "Did you discover Matthew? Had he already joined up?" He evidently had not returned with her, and yet she did not look so despondent as he'd thought she might after three days of fruitless searching.

Mary did not respond for a moment, waiting until they were all seated. She perched delicately, too tense to fully relax, on the edge of a plush chair. Her right hand still carefully covered her left.

"I did find Matthew, yes," she said quietly. Her eyes rested somewhere on the floor in the centre of the room. "I was too late to prevent his joining the army."

"Oh, my darling –" Cora began a sympathetic murmur as Sybil, close by her, touched Mary's arm comfortingly.

"No, there's more," Mary said firmly. Their gaze pricked uncomfortably at her, and she inhaled deeply, looking towards them but without quite meeting anyone's eyes.

"I found him, and… I married him."

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you once again for reading and sticking with me through this! There's still loads to come. I think! It's always so encouraging to hear what you thought, reviews are the icing on the cake! Thank you! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _HAPPY DOWNTON DAY! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_

_In the midst of the excitement, allow me to sneak in this chapter under the line. Thank you so much for your responses to chapter 7 - I'm absolutely overwhelmed! It's incredibly encouraging, and I hope that you'll enjoy this next instalment!_

_Massive thanks to Eolivet, whose endless enthusiasm for this fic is encouraging me no end, as well as helping me out with the MASSES of dialogue in this chapter!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

"I beg your pardon?" Robert's voice cut sharply across the suddenly static air of the room. Everything seemed to have frozen to a standstill at Mary's announcement. Cora's lips were parted as if to speak, though no sound came out, her face a portrait of shock.

"Matthew and I are married," Mary repeated the information, surprised at how calm she was able to sound when confronted with the look on her father's face.

"Darling, what do you mean you are married? You can't be…" Cora eventually found her voice.

"You've married Matthew?" Sybil leaned forwards excitedly, as Edith sat further back in her chair, looking sour.

"It's quite simple," Mary said again. This time, she reached into her small purse and took out the rolled-up marriage certificate, perching forwards onto the edge of her chair and holding it out to her father, wedding ring glinting as it caught the sun. He took it and frowned over it as she continued. "I met Matthew, he asked me to marry him, and I did."

"But how can you –"

"A license," Mary anticipated Sybil's eager question. Really, must she spell it out for them? "Matthew arranged one from the Bishop of Manchester, and we are married."

"You foolish girl," Robert raised his voice, glaring at the certificate in his hand, fuming at his eldest daughter. He had known she was headstrong, but this! "What on earth were you thinking of?"

"If you'll pardon me, I was thinking that I wanted to marry Matthew before he left for months to join a war!" Mary's voice rose in turn, now, finding herself increasingly affronted by their horror. "For goodness sake, Papa, it's what you both have been pushing us towards ever since Matthew arrived in Downton! And now we have done as you always wished, your response is anger?"

"Yes, it is!" Robert raged, incensed further somehow by Mary's entirely oblivious attitude. "How dare you conceive to get _married_ without my consent, or even my knowledge! Mary, this certificate is dated Wednesday – that is two days ago, and we have not heard hide nor hair from you until this morning! Yes, I am angry!"

"And would you scold Matthew as well, when he returns?" Mary rose to her feet, clenching her fists by her side in agitation. "No, you would not scold a man –"

"Mary, you are my daughter and –"

"I am an adult, Papa, I am not a child any more who you can smack over your knee!" She shrugged angrily. "Shall we divorce when Matthew returns then? Would that recompense? Or what if Matthew never _does_ come back? Should you be satisfied then?" Hot tears stung behind her eyes.

"Do not speak so cruelly, Mary." Robert's voice lowered to a dangerous tremor, then rose again in fury. "You tell me you are an adult, yet you behave as irresponsibly as a child! Have you any idea the trouble you have caused?"

"By doing what you have wanted me to do for two years?" Mary flung back.

"By doing it so –"

"Robert! Mary..." Cora could take no more of her husband and daughter tearing into each other, and stood up, holding her hands up in an effort to placate them. Sybil suddenly realised how far forwards in her seat she was leaning, and sat back, unable to tear her eyes from the tableau, while Edith stared, unsure whether to be horrified or amused by the scandal.

Mary's eyes, as well as her father's, whipped to Cora. Her chest heaved as she took deep, angry breaths to calm herself, reeling from the argument with her father. Cora looked between the two of them, wondering which was currently being the bigger child. She was furious, as furious as Robert, but could see that there must be a better way to handle things.

"Darling," she addressed Mary in a much cooler tone, "Your father has every right to be angry. I am too. Don't you understand, we would be thrilled that you have settled things with Matthew – it is the deceit, darling, and the manner in which you have gone about it. If you had only told us your intention –"

Mary's eyes hardened and she sunk back defiantly onto her chair, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

"You would not have allowed it."

"Darling –"

"You wouldn't have, would you?"

Cora bristled at the accusation. "Well of course we wouldn't. You do not seem to understand, Mary, the ramifications of your actions! Have you any idea of how many people would be expecting an invitation to your wedding, whom I shall now have to somehow explain to that you have been privately married? And what of Cousin Isobel? Have you considered how it would hurt her, to have been denied the chance to see her only child married?"

"Of course we considered it!" Mary snapped, but beyond that remained tight-lipped. Her parents were angry enough, without knowing that Isobel had witnessed their wedding, for the moment. Cora, when she received no further expression of regret, continued.

"I am trying to believe it! And so, what explanation should you like me to give all those you have disappointed? For they will ask, Mary!"

"Yes," Edith suddenly spoke up, looking at Mary with a cold, challenging, almost triumphant expression. "People _will_ wonder why you were so keen to marry in _such_ haste…"

Mary's eyes widened as she turned to Edith, gripping the arms of her chair, understanding her sister's implication full well. Her low voice trembled with rage.

"If you are suggesting that I… That we…"

As Mary glowered at her sister, Robert turned angrily on his heels and left the room, unable to bear any more of this. He needed to calm down and try to process it, he was too furious, and Mary being too obstinate, and he could not face thinking of _why_, as Edith had intimated… No, it seemed a matter better dealt with by his wife, than he; in the rage he was in he could trust her with greater diplomacy.

Mary barely acknowledged her father's departure, still reeling at Edith. "You may think what you like of me, but to accuse Matthew of impropriety! It's ridiculous!"

"But Mary," Cora pleaded with her daughter, trying to make her see. "People _will_ wonder, don't you see that?"

"And what if they do?" Mary turned her glare to her mother, now. "I know that we did everything _properly_, I don't give a fig what other people think!"

"Well perhaps you should!" Cora's voice began to rise in frustration, now. "If you are suspected of… _impropriety_…" She almost physically shuddered at the word, wishing desperately that she could believe Mary's innocence, "society will be closed to you, Mary. No matter your innocence, you cannot be in ignorance of how it appears – the truth barely matters!" She sounded desperate, she sounded mad, but Mary was just _refusing_ to listen and see sense.

"I don't care!" Mary suddenly shouted, then laughed incredulously, scornfully. For the first time, she realised fully, she really didn't care. "What need have I for _society_ now, Mama? It was all about securing my prospects, finding a husband, anyway, was it not? Was that not the purpose for 'doing the season', always? To secure and then parade with a husband?" In face of the purity of what she and Matthew shared, the whole thing suddenly seemed ludicrous. "I have a husband, now, Mama! I have – I have had – Matthew, and if society shuns me for it, then so be it. I would not change it."

At once, in the face of her mother's horror at how society would view her marriage, things suddenly became blindingly clear to Mary. How had she ever doubted, how had she ever failed to see, that Matthew was more to her than any of it? Oh, it had taken her too long to realise.

"Mary, how can you be so foolish?" Cora glared, simmering with anger.

"Foolish? Perhaps I am!" Mary exclaimed, standing up sharply. "But if it is foolishness to do what I have done – to have loved, and married, and been Matthew's wife for two days before he left, if that is all we shall ever have had – well, a fool I shall gladly be."

Pressing her lips into a hard line, her fists clenched by her sides, Mary turned and swept from the room, seeking the solitude of her bedroom away from the blind accusation and chiding of her family.

It was an hour or two later, as Mary sat flicking idly through a book but paying very little attention to it, that there was a soft knock at the door.

"Not now," she sighed. Another scolding was not what she needed. She had expected nothing less from her parents, but still, it rankled. If only Matthew had been here. She knew that he would have been able to placate them, to say things in the right way to make them see. He would not have risen to anger as she had, because that was not what Matthew was like; in fact she had only ever seen him rile in anger at… at her. For some reason, this made her smile.

The door clicked open and she glared at it, her expression softening mildly when Sybil peered around.

"Mary, might I come in?"

Mary smiled resignedly. "Of course, darling."

Looking relieved, Sybil shut the door behind her and went to sit by Mary, taking her hand in hers. For a moment, the two sisters looked at each other, contemplating, wondering, appraising.

Eventually, Sybil said in wonder, "Have you really married Matthew? I can hardly believe it!"

"Yes," Mary nodded, realising immediately that Sybil's question was not to judge her. The younger woman leaned forwards and grinned conspiratorially.

"I think it's terribly exciting!"

Mary laughed brightly at the simplicity of Sybil's attitude, and stared down somewhere at their clasped hands. There was a moment's silence before Sybil wondered, looking at Mary with great seriousness, "You love him very much, don't you?"

Her words struck deeply into Mary and she looked up at Sybil, her lips twitching into the slightest, appreciative smile. An honest, unguarded smile.

"Yes. I do."

"Oh, Mary… I wish Mama and Papa were not so hard on you! Though, Mary, I do think it's wonderfully romantic but do tell me…" Sybil glanced cautiously at her sister. "What – Edith said…"

"What Edith said!" Mary scoffed, clutching Sybil's hand unconsciously tighter. "Edith knows nothing of such things! Sybil, you of all people must believe that it was nothing to do with that."

In an instant of meeting her sister's eyes, Sybil knew it, and nodded.

"I do, Mary."

Mary smiled gratefully, before Sybil continued hesitantly. "I suppose… You _do_ know of – such things – now, mustn't you?"

Eyes widening, a faint blush stained Mary's cheeks and she licked her lips. She thought for a moment, and replied carefully, touched by Sybil's cautious curiosity.

"Well, I… certainly know much more about them than I did before!" Yes, her understanding of – such things – before Matthew, though she had thought herself so experienced, had been pitiful. He had taught her so much… She gasped as a little shiver of desire flitted through her at the memory of him, of them.

Sybil chuckled nervously. "I'm sorry, Mary, I don't mean to embarrass you. Only… no-one ever speaks of these things, and if they do they are all such wildly different accounts…" Mary wondered who on earth Sybil _had_ been speaking to! "…and – well, it always seems such a shame to me that such a part of marriage should be simply a, a _chore_, or a duty!"

"A chore!" Mary exclaimed, laughing, and could not prevent the smile that crept over her face. "No, darling, it – certainly is not a chore." She shook her head and clutched Sybil's hands tighter, their smiles matching. Sybil giggled and wrinkled her nose.

"Though – I suppose if you were to marry a Sir Anthony… it might be somewhat more so!"

"Sybil, do not put the thought in my head, I beg you!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Sybil calmed her laughter and looked at Mary with great warmth.

"I would imagine," Mary said quietly, "that the difference between it being a pleasure, and a duty, lies in whether you have married for love, or for duty."

Sybil smiled at the light shining in her sister's eyes – she seemed so wise, and Sybil looked up to her even more now than she had before.

"I think, Mary, that with Matthew you may have been lucky enough to achieve both."

"Do you know," Mary's countenance shone. "I think perhaps you are right."

* * *

><p>After a terse, uncomfortable lunch, and the frosty silence broken by occasional rebukes from her parents, Mary again attempted to retire to her room. She was tired, emotionally exhausted, and felt so utterly alone. Only Sybil had showed her any understanding at all, but the comfort of Sybil could never match that of Matthew, who she already missed fiercely. That morning, when they had made love and bid each other goodbye… already seemed a lifetime ago.<p>

It was not long before she was disturbed again, summoned to the drawing room. Could they not let her be? How much scolding was she to endure! Though she felt resigned to it, she straightened her shoulders and held her head high defiantly as she entered the drawing room. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

By the fireplace, her father stood, resting his hand upon the mantelpiece with a dark frown. Her mother sat near him, and on the couch… was Isobel, clasping her hands in her lap. As Mary walked in, she looked up, and met the young woman's eyes with a flash of understanding that reassured her. Mary faced them calmly, hands linked gently in front of her.

"You wanted to see me?" She stated, more than asked.

"I think," Robert said quietly, though Mary could still detect a tremor of anger, or disappointment, in his tone; "that you should explain to Cousin Isobel what has happened."

Mary's lips twitched gently. "Of course," she said smoothly as she sat down. She turned to Isobel, expression unreadable as her parents watched her carefully. Cora was fully readying herself to sympathise with Matthew's poor mother… How could Mary be so uncaring of her feelings?

"Isobel," Mary began, and the older woman nodded at her to continue. Mary wondered how she would react… As though she knew? As though she had no idea? Would she be injured? She had promised her an ally… But she was painfully aware that it might injure her parents further to know that Isobel had been privy to it… She decided to trust her. Matthew was sensible, and she could believe the same of Isobel. She took a breath. "My parents wish me to inform you – that Matthew and I were married, whilst in Manchester this week."

To their amazement, Isobel simply smiled. "Thank you, Mary, dear." She twisted slightly to face Lord and Lady Grantham. "Yes, I was already aware of it."

"What?"

"Pardon me?" They exclaimed in unison.

Isobel wasted no time in her reply, had been preparing for this since she had left her son and daughter-in-law on Wednesday.

"Yes, when I sought out Mary with some provisions, as you requested, I – was surprised to find that they had been married earlier that day."

Mary's brows rose in surprise, but Isobel reassured her with a calm glance.

Cora bristled, whilst Robert clutched at the mantelpiece more fiercely.

"You have known of this since Wednesday, and did not think to inform us?" He struggled to keep his voice calm, unwilling to raise it to a woman such as Isobel, though he was reeling from the information.

"Were you not angry?" Cora probed, unable to believe how Isobel could be so calm about the matter. Mary waited with baited breath.

"I will not pretend that I was not hurt," Isobel said. "But no, I did not inform you, and whilst I am sorry for that – I would ask you, what would it have achieved?"

"Well –" Robert spluttered.

"Would you have raced to Manchester to chide them and tear them apart? It seemed to me that there was little to be done about it, the act having already been passed. It could not be undone, and so I considered that the only two options were to be angry about it which would achieve nothing, or to accept it as well as I could. I knew Mary would return today, and I'm afraid I saw no need to trouble you with it before then – and in any case, I believed it Mary's place to inform you."

"I can hardly believe what I am hearing," muttered Robert under his breath.

"Lord Grantham, if I may… Is their marriage not something you have all been desirous of?"

"You know it is, of course, but –"

"– not like this," Cora finished her husband's sentence.

Isobel shrugged. "But, I'm afraid, this is how it is! It cannot be changed now, and so I see little advantage in wasting energy being angry over it. It is done, and I believe we must accept it and do our best to appreciate the advantage, such as it is."

Robert pursed his lips, and Cora frowned, in deep thought.

"Might I say something for myself?"

Everyone turned to Mary, having somehow almost forgotten that the very object of their discussion was there.

"Of course," her father accepted, more soberly now than he had appeared earlier. Mary licked her lips, clutching her hands in her lap. She was calmer, now, much calmer, thanks to the quiet support of Isobel.

"I know that we've hurt you, and angered you, and I'm afraid that we suspected it would. But you must know that it was done not out of spite, or stubbornness, or impropriety, or anything other than the simple wish to be in the position of husband and wife when Matthew left. He will be gone for months, at least, and…"

The emotional strain of the day was catching up to her, and she paused to take a shuddering, calming breath. "You cannot possibly understand fully the trial we have endured, in this last month, and to only have finally realised how we wanted things to be once his departure was fixed…" She shook her head, and raised her eyes from where they had been fixed somewhere on the floor. "I am sorry, truly I am and so is Matthew, for any disappointment we have caused. I am sorry for the hurt, but I will not be for what we have done – I can't be. Whether you accept it now, or not, is your choice, but the simple fact of the matter is that I love Matthew, and shall never be sorry for becoming his wife before he had to leave."

For several moments, her three parents simply stared at her, a sort of awe written across their faces. Rarely had Mary ever spoken with such heartfelt honesty – brutal honesty, sometimes, yes, but this was a side to her they had rarely been privy to.

Isobel was the first to speak, and she did so quietly, and carefully.

"Please, Lord Grantham, Cousin Cora – it is difficult to swallow, believe me, I know – but if you were to have witnessed them on Wednesday, as I did, you would judge them less harshly. I believe Mary entirely, and believe I can assure you that Matthew would speak similarly."

Robert inhaled deeply, stretching to his full height and looking at Mary with a more considered eye.

"I think," he said slowly, "that we have perhaps all responded in shock, today. Mary," he fixed her with a hard stare, "I find your actions very hard to forgive. But… after taking some time to consider things, I may eventually come to terms with it. Yes, we all wished for a union between you and Matthew – I just cannot yet condone how you have gone about it. We will speak more on the matter tomorrow."

He left the room, retiring to his library, granting his daughter a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as he passed. She smiled gently, appreciating the gesture for what it was. Across the room, Cora shifted slightly in her seat, twisting her hands together.

"Mary, I think your father has been very understanding just now," she said quietly. "I think you should get some rest, now, it has been a long day and I'm sure things will look different in the morning." They were all drained.

Mary smiled with a shrug. "They always do, don't they, Mama?" She stood up smoothly. "Thank you, Isobel," she addressed her mother-in-law warmly, with depthless gratitude for her support. Isobel nodded.

"You're welcome, my dear. You have made Matthew happy; I cannot wish for more than that."

* * *

><p>Later that evening, once Anna had prepared her and left, Mary crawled into bed. Rarely had she felt so exhausted, in every single way, in her life. The cotton of her nightdress felt odd, now, rough, against her skin. How quickly she had grown accustomed to the feel of cool sheets, and Matthew's warmth, as her only covering… Oh, she missed him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hugged her arms about herself, and remembered the feel of him against her, the touch of his hand, breath on her skin, lips upon hers, his scent… Everything about him, she missed with an almost physical ache. How she had needed him today!<p>

She thought of him, also lying alone somewhere, in a strange bed somewhere that wasn't his home. She wondered if he was thinking of her, missing her.

On a sudden impulse, she pulled the sheets off her and got up, padding across the room to her dressing table. She had insisted on unpacking alone, not needing any assistance for so few things. Opening a drawer, she smiled gently, tears pooling in her eyes as she pulled out Matthew's shirt from where it lay neatly folded.

Part of her felt as though it were slightly ridiculous, to clutch it so desperately like a babe would a security blanket. But she didn't care. It was her security, Matthew was her security. Climbing back into bed, she held it close to her and inhaled, breathing in his warm scent which clung to it still. It was only a small connection, but still, she treasured it.

She missed him. Her husband. Matthew.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I know that everyone's probably far more excited about the premiere tonight, so I really appreciate you taking the time to read. I'd love to know what you thought, I think this is the dialogue-heavy chapter I've ever written, and I don't consider dialogue my strongest point! :S_

_OMG, if you're in the UK... EIGHT HOURS TO GO. HAPPY DOWNTON DAY._

_Thank you! :D_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _Enormous apologies for the huge delay! My muse deserted me. It's been very frustrating! Finally, she returned to me, and here is chapter 9._

_In the meantime, I've been overwhelmed to keep receiving alerts and favourites for this fic, and of course reviews for chapter 8 - thank you so much, for every single one. It's incredibly rewarding to know so many people are keen to know what happens next! _

_Huge special thanks to Eolivet who gave me some utterly beautiful inspiration for parts of this. She knows which parts they are, and I'm incredibly grateful for it, as well as her endless encouragement! :)_

_With no further ado... Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

It didn't take long, really, for the Crawley family to accept the change in Mary's situation, particularly after Matthew's effusive letter. Mary had thought correctly; he'd known exactly the right thing to say to pacify them. She found, with rueful pleasure, that she could no longer begrudge Matthew's position of favour in her father's eyes.

After much deliberation and agonising, Cora wrote to the wider family to explain that, with the war upon them, Mary and Matthew had decided to marry in a quiet, private ceremony, desiring little fuss. Her first suggestion had been that they should arrange a 'proper' wedding for Matthew's return, that everyone could attend and be none the wiser, but Mary would not have it. It was strange, but it felt to her as though it would somehow cheapen what they _had_ shared, to cover it up so.

Even Violet had, to most people's surprise, come around to the idea with relative smoothness. Though, she made no secret of the fact that she had always championed their union, and was frankly beyond caring how or where they got about it, so long as they did!

Really, though, the notion became more palatable because… it was not apparent. In their eyes, Mary was still their daughter, lived at home with them, went about her routine as she did before – though with a greater spring in her step, a brighter smile, and a flush of excitement twice a week when she received his letters. It seemed difficult to contemplate that she was _married_, whilst her situation remained so unchanged.

To Mary, though… Oh, how could anything be the same! Everything was changed. Now, she walked around the Abbey knowing that one day it really would be her home – no, not hers – _theirs_. The sheer, ever-present awareness that she belonged to Matthew, and he to her, seemed to pervade everything. She almost felt like a different person. The devotion she read in his letters, remembered in his touch, his look, seemed to set every fibre of her being alight. It touched everything. Ever since she had returned, as his wife… food tasted different. Everything seemed… to _matter_ more. She _felt_ more. Her body felt different, changed, affected by the memory of his love. She could not be the same as she was before… It was quite beautiful.

She wondered, that first month when it passed, if somehow the sheer force of their love could have affected her even more than she'd thought. A brief flutter of panic swept her, but she ignored it, put it down to stress of the emotional turmoil and upheaval she'd experienced, combined now with his absence… It had been intense, so intense, and so brief… Yes. That must be all it was.

The second month also passed, and the faint fingers of fear began to creep into her gut. But again, she ignored it. She'd been so tired, recently, surely it was only that… War was a straining business, and she missed Matthew so much – all she had was a photograph (generously donated by Isobel) and his shirt, and though they were dear reminders, so dear, they were not _him_. Though part of her mind pricked at what it must mean, she resolutely ignored it, burying the thought deep in her mind. No, she could not comprehend that, not yet, not with Matthew away. He must be here for that, she couldn't possibly – no, she wouldn't even think about it. The worry of the prospect alone was beginning to make her ill, her appetite became unsteady and on some days she could barely palate food. No, she mustn't even think it, it would be too much.

The third month passed, and Mary warily began to consider that she must, now, heed it. Must she? Yes, she grudgingly supposed she must. But she was terrified, so terrified by the prospect. How could she possibly deal with it alone? What was she supposed to do? Sometimes, just sometimes, a glimmer of excitement, or pleasure, at the thought would seep through. It would be such a perfect fulfilment of things… But then the terror would just as swiftly return. She was barely used to being a wife, _had_ only been a wife in the truest sense for a couple of days – _this_ was unthinkable! For a week, she worried over it, her lethargy growing as her appetite diminished, until she realised that she must do _something_. For her own sake, for Matthew's sake, for… She could barely even finish the thought.

* * *

><p>With a trembling hand, she knocked one morning at the door of Crawley House. Molesley opened it, smiled warmly (she was always welcome there, now) and showed her through to the sitting room. Gingerly, she sat, and passed the time waiting by glancing nervously around. Somehow, just being here calmed her. She looked around the room – at its cool, blue walls, the photographs on the mantelpiece, books upon the coffee table – and felt a kernel of contentment. One day, this would be their home. One day, when he was back, and the rotten war was over, they'd be together and this would be their home. It was a pleasant thought. He, and she, and… She stopped. Shivered. Started again. He'd sit in his armchair, there, with the newspaper or a book. She'd sit at the little table in the window, writing, or doing whatever it was that wives were supposed to do. And in the corner – or by the edge of the settee, perhaps – her instinct was to stop again, but this time she pushed the thought through. By the edge of the settee, a crib, that contained a child with striking blue eyes and blonde, downy hair…<p>

This image of family contentment amused her for a little while, and she began to feel a comforting ease come over her, when her thoughts were startled by Isobel bustling into the room. She jumped a little, twisted to the door and smiled nervously.

"Isobel!"

"Mary, dear, I do hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Oh, no, not at all!" Mary's tight smile trembled, and she clasped her hands tightly together. Her voice was coming out higher, strained, she could tell. Swallowing nervously, her throat constricting, she blinked up once at her mother-in-law.

Isobel sat down carefully, watching the young woman with a practised eye. Mary dropped in with relative frequency, these days, and the two women had quickly established a firm bond in Matthew's absence. Immediately, it was clear to Isobel that this was not a routine visit. In truth, if she were entirely honest, she was only surprised it had not occurred sooner.

"I'm glad," she smiled brightly. Deciding to cut straight to the chase at Mary's evident tension, Isobel sat up straighter and clasped her hands purposefully together. "Now then, do I have the pleasure of purely a social call, or is there something troubling you, dear?"

Mary stared at her hands in her lap, fiddling agitatedly with her wedding ring. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to speak, and when she did, it was in a very small, hesitant voice.

"I – was hoping for some advice." She still didn't look up.

Isobel got up and moved closer, to the corner of the settee nearest Mary, and placed her hand gently over hers.

"What is it?" As always, she saw no point in dilly-dallying around an issue – whatever it might be.

"Well, you see, it's that –" She stopped and took a breath. This was hard! It was all very well being a quiet, unvoiced concern in her head that she could ignore, but this would make it so very real… As she sighed, she felt Isobel's hand tighten reassuringly, willing her to go on. Mary moistened her lips and tried again.

"I've begun to wonder if – perhaps –" She squeezed her eyes fleetingly shut, then looked at Isobel with a flash of determination. Out with it. "Oh, Isobel, I'm beginning to suspect quite seriously that I might be – with child." By the end of her sentence, her words were little more than whispers upon her breath, that Isobel had to strain to catch.

She clasped Mary's hands and opened her mouth to respond, eyes gleaming, but now that the prospect was verbalised, Mary felt such a rush of release that she could not seem to stop.

"Only I don't know, and I don't know what I'd – Matthew isn't here! And I should be thrilled, I'm sure, and I think perhaps I am but then it scares me so –"

"Mary, dear!" Isobel cut her off before she threw herself into a wild, needless panic. Mary stopped, startled, staring wide-eyed at the older woman. Isobel could see her throat constrict as she breathed in fear. She smiled reassuringly and leaned forwards a little. "Of course it's overwhelming, and especially with Matthew away. Even if he were here, I think!"

Mary nodded tightly.

Isobel continued. "Now, then. Do you know for sure? Does anybody else know?" Her attitude was practical and sensible as ever. It reminded Mary of Matthew, and she smiled gently.

"No," she said quietly. "I've hardly dared think about it myself, even, until this last week." She looked faintly apologetic.

In truth, Mary wasn't entirely sure why it was Isobel she'd come to first. She decided it was because Isobel was a nurse, she knew about things such as these, could help… It should have perhaps been her own mother, she thought. But it was Isobel who had championed her marriage to Matthew, Isobel who made her think of Matthew, and it was only for Matthew's sake that she could even begin to comprehend the possibility of… this.

Upon Isobel's sound advice, they summoned Doctor Clarkson from the village hospital; luckily, he was having a quiet afternoon. Mary wanted as little fuss as possible; she couldn't possibly face going there herself – far too many questions would be raised – and if she were to summon him to the Abbey, explanations would be required by her parents, and she was certainly not yet ready for that!

To her quiet delight, Isobel suggested they use Matthew's bedroom for privacy. Mary immediately felt at ease there – it was as though she could feel his very presence in the room – and when Doctor Clarkson left, it was with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eye.

"Is everything alright?" Isobel asked earnestly at the door.

"Oh yes," Clarkson nodded, with that easy, comforting smile. "She'll do perfectly fine. Or, should I say, _they'll_ do perfectly fine."

Isobel grinned widely and touched his arm in thanks. "I'm so glad to hear it."

It was several more minutes before Mary reappeared, looking drawn. Isobel had taken the liberty of having some tea prepared, and Mary took a cup gratefully as she eased down into a chair.

"Well, then?" Isobel gently pressed.

Mary simply nodded. "Oh, yes. Everything is – as we suspected." She gave a wan smile. "Thank you, Isobel. It's such a weight from my mind, to know for certain."

"Of course it is, my dear." Already, she could see that the tension had dropped from Mary's shoulders, though there was still a slight unease about her. She smiled brightly. "I couldn't be more thrilled for you, Mary."

"I'm sure! Thank you," Mary breezed, her smile widening a little, before she gave a little sigh. "And I'm sure Matthew will be too." Oh, Matthew… Her heart ached for missing him. She hardly dared imagine his reaction to the news, because as soon as her mind strayed there, she remembered that she would not see it.

"And how do you feel about it now?" Isobel broke gently into her thoughts, a kind expression covering her face.

"I hardly know!" Placing her teacup down gently, Mary folded her hands in her lap and sighed a little.

She certainly _wanted _to be thrilled – she should be! She was… She was carrying Matthew's child. What a simply wondrous thought. It was so wondrous, it seemed too much to take in. The final, perfect seal of their union. A piece of Matthew, oh, what a wonderful piece, that would be with her now until he was returned to her (she refused to believe that he would not be, it was too much). A part of Matthew, always with her. Yes… she could welcome the bubble of joy within her for that.

But, then, it only served to remind her that Matthew was not here _now_. That he wouldn't be, for months at a time. The prospect of doing this alone… Oh, she would not be alone, she knew, but without _Matthew_, and really was that not the same thing? Cold fear pooled in her at the thought that he wouldn't be present to see his child born – for his own sake as well as hers. Dear Matthew, he would be overjoyed – from his barracks, his trench, wherever he happened to be. And that thought stabbed at her more than anything.

Feeling restless and agitated, frustrated at her own self-imposed barriers to happiness, she stood up and paced lightly across the room. Isobel sat calmly, allowing her to work out her feelings in silence. Her presence alone was comfort enough.

For some time, they remained like this. Mary, lost in her thoughts and Isobel, sitting, waiting, calmly picking up a book in the meantime. It was perfectly alright. Mary gazed out of the window, and laid her hand lightly against the frame.

"What was Matthew's father like?" Her quiet voice broke the stillness of the air.

"Reginald?" Isobel couldn't disguise the surprise in her tone.

"Yes." Mary turned around to face her, a gentle, enquiring look on her face. "Matthew's never really spoken of him, you see." Her eyes naturally fell upon the photograph of Matthew on the mantelpiece when she spoke of him. She wasn't sure why she suddenly wanted to know, but curiosity had stuck her.

"Oh! Well, he was…" Isobel pursed her lips slightly and thought. Nobody had asked her of Reginald for such a long time. Mary was right; Matthew never talked much about him, though she knew he wasn't often far from her son's thoughts. "He was very like Matthew," Isobel finally settled upon.

Standing up, she crossed to the little cabinet and pulled out a small album. Flicking through its well-thumbed, worn pages, she beckoned Mary to join her on the sofa.

Isobel was right. Mary let out a soft gasp as she looked at the old photograph, of a much younger Isobel with a tall man, with blonde hair and that same soft smile…

"He was very handsome," Mary said softly.

"Yes," Isobel smiled. "I'm afraid I must credit Matthew mostly to him, in that respect!"

Mary chuckled. "You look very happy together," she observed.

"We were!" Isobel's voice was tinged with sad remembrance. "Very much so."

When Mary turned the page, a delighted gasp slipped past her lips.

"Is that –"

"Matthew, yes."

"Oh!"

Staring out from the photograph at them was a boy of eight or nine, with ever so slightly too long hair flopping over his forehead. Despite the faded image, his eyes seemed to sparkle brightly, his smile proud as he perched upon a gleaming bicycle, his cheeks boyishly full and a school cap upon his head.

"It took him a very long time to learn," Isobel remembered.

"Yes, he told me!" Mary recalled the tale, recounted by Matthew on that blissful morning after their wedding. "I'm glad he didn't give up! He wouldn't be nearly so endearing without that bicycle," she trailed off softly.

"I'm afraid he's inherited his stubbornness from me," Isobel laughed. "Reginald was gentle as a lamb – as Matthew certainly can be, I know, but – he certainly has that streak in him."

"I know it, believe me!" Mary smiled brightly. Her fingers traced over his image, then she turned back to the previous. "You must miss him very much," she almost whispered.

"I do. Very much."

At Isobel's soft sigh, Mary looked up, eyes clouded with sympathy. She suddenly realised how deep the understanding they shared ran. Of longing, absence, memory… Only, alongside that, she had hope. Hope of Matthew's return, and hope in this child. Just as, she supposed, Isobel had Matthew.

And all at once, she felt at far greater ease than she had done for weeks. Somehow, with that understanding, she knew it would be alright… and this time, when that little kernel of joy sprung up, she could not quash it.

* * *

><p>Even so, it was another two weeks before she dared write to Matthew to tell him. She felt it only right that she were comfortable with the idea herself, before burdening him with it. Not burdening him with the news, no – but it was such a shock to her, still, that she wanted to be fully accustomed to the situation – she could not burden him with any latent unease over it.<p>

With a fluttering heart, she sat down to write. Now that she knew, she recognised all these signs as being an effect of it – her heightened emotions, tiredness, tastes – and so wasn't surprised when she had to blot falling tears from the page. She was carrying Matthew's child. She'd allowed herself to indulge this thought, now, and the thought of Matthew being a father… That seemed easier to palate, somehow, than the thought of herself being a mother, which she hadn't quite dared contemplate yet. She knew without a doubt he would take to it admirably, and the thought brought fresh tears to her eyes.

She wrote quickly, naturally, allowing her thoughts to spill onto the page to him without too much care. Matthew preferred her letters, she knew, without too much forethought. He believed it more as though she were talking to him, then. As if she did not think before she spoke as a matter of course, she'd thought!

As soon as it was written and sealed, she gave it to Carson to post. He did not understand her haste, nor the trembling of her hands or nervous smile, but she knew it had to be straight off before she lost her nerve.

When a letter arrived only a few hours later then, with the afternoon post, she was surprised. Chiding herself for the foolish, ridiculous thought that by some spell he could have responded already (true, he was only in Coventry but the post was not that efficient!), she took his letter up to her room. She'd received a letter only the day before, and did not generally write again until he'd received her reply. Brows furrowed in perplexed expectation, she slit open the envelope.

Her hands started to shake until she could barely read it any more, and the letter dropped to the floor at her feet.

_Darling Mary,_

_I have news. There isn't an easy way to tell you, Mary, but the company is needed in France, to support the front lines. We are to leave in the morning. Our training, such as we have received so far, will have to do well enough – we're considered ready, at least. We wouldn't be going if not._

_I'm so sorry, darling, that I shan't see you before I go. If I could... I'm sorry, my love. Don't worry – please, Mary, try not to worry – it won't be long before I'm back with you. A couple of months, they've said. If all goes to plan._

_I'll be alright. This is what I was training for, after all, isn't it? It's just come a little sooner than expected. I'll write to mother. I'm sorry I can't tell you more now, that's all I know just now. I'll write again when we arrive. _

_I'll see you soon, darling – think of me. _

_With all my fondest love,  
>Matthew. <em>

**TBC**_  
><em>

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! It's lovely to know what you thought, reviews are always hugely appreciated! I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you!  
><em>


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _*waves* Hello! Here we are again! I'd like to say a massive, incredible thank you to everyone who's either reviewed, favourited, alerted or goodness, just even read, this fic. It's incredibly rewarding, thank you! _

_ Well the season 2 goodness is hotting up, but in the wait between episodes here's the latest foray into post-series 1 AU happiness. I hope you enjoy reading!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

Matthew awoke early, and lay staring at the sterile, white ceiling for some time. In no time at all he'd be roused, to be ready to board the train to Dover within the hour. And then France.

It wasn't supposed to have been like this. They were due another two months training, and then he'd have seen Mary for a few days before actually shipping out, before he'd be in any real danger. Their prospects hadn't been sugarcoated, or if they had he'd seen past it, and he knew what they'd be facing. He'd been supposed to see Mary again before any of that. He tried to quell the quiet stirring of fear in his gut.

Thankfully, activity soon denied him the chance for further thought. Breakfast was gulped down, possessions thrown hastily into kit-bags, boots polished and uniforms fixed. Any unease was brashly covered by quips and turns, all designed to distract men's thoughts from the reality of their situation. Some were excited, of course, thrilled to be getting a piece of the action at last. For some, it was suddenly all a bit too real, and their faces betrayed rising fear. Others, like Matthew, braved a stoical mask, quietly accepting the circumstances.

Before long, the small company were piling onto the van that would take them to the train. Matthew settled onto the bench seat, shoulders wedged between two other officers, and looked awkwardly back as there was a shout from the parade ground.

"Hold up!" The barrack's military clerk appeared at the door. "Last round of post before you leave, it just arrived. There's one here for you, Anderson, you, Tapping, Jackson, Crawley, Daniels," he chanted out each name as he passed the envelopes into eager hands. "Well, there you are, lads. Safe trip, good luck!"

Murmured thanks and nods were passed, along with a quick throw of salutes before the van door slammed closed and they made off. Matthew slid his thumb under the seal of the envelope and pulled out the letter, having instantly recognised Mary's handwriting. She must have received his hastily written note of the day before by now…

Scanning down the lines, Matthew's eyes widened and his hands began to tremble. He made a strange gulping noise before folding the letter quickly into his lap with clenching hands, staring blankly ahead with wide, fearful eyes, his body stiffened and tense.

"Good Lord, Crawley, what is it?"

"Mary," his tiny voice produced with barely any sound, which his companions had to strain to hear.

"That's your wife, isn't it?" Lieutenant Tapping gently pushed.

Matthew nodded, wet his lips and unfolded the letter again, staring intently at it for confirmation. His chest was tight and he couldn't seem to breathe, though an ache of love was coursing through it. Love, admiration, joy, terror…

"She's –" He stopped, licked his lips again and swallowed. "She's –" Another deep breath. "Lord, she's… pregnant." The final word was barely even a whisper.

"Well, congratulations, man!" Major Anderson beamed. Matthew managed a breathless, trembling grin, as he received several hearty claps on the shoulder.

"Just a minute," Tapping interrupted again. "You've not been married long, have you? Didn't you say it was just before you came out?"

"Barely two days," Matthew looked up, and gave a small nod. He couldn't believe it. It seemed impossible, unthinkable, though of course there was no reason why she shouldn't… they'd hardly been _careful_, or given any thought to… precautions, they simply hadn't thought in the dizzying intensity of their affair, passion had overridden any concern… And now they were to have a child. Somehow, it seemed… perfectly _right_.

"Blimey, now, Crawley. That's pretty impressive!" Jackson laughed with an exaggerated wink at Matthew, who flushed with colour and ducked his head once more to the precious words on the sheet in his hands.

Mary was going to bear him a child. _Their_ child. How utterly perfect it felt. His heart panged for missing her, loving her, craving her; more than ever he longed to hold her once more, and the thought of her bearing it alone pained him so… But what an irrepressibly _happy_ thought, that they had conceived a child! For a moment, the contemplation of his darling wife and their baby drove out any fear he might have had at where he was on his way to.

* * *

><p><em>December 2<em>_nd__, 1914_

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I cannot tell you what relief I felt to receive your letter! I suppose the post must be slower from France. I shall have to get used to it! Darling, I'm just so glad you've arrived safely. I know you'll tell me not to worry, but I can't help it, you see. _

_Matthew, I'm so pleased you're happy. I know I had no reason to doubt that you would be, or to fear about it, but it seemed so terribly daunting without you here. Now that I'm used to the idea, I'm starting to even feel a little excited – just sometimes! Everything feels so very different, though, and your mother is being wonderful, but I dearly wish you could be here, my love. I wish more than anything else in the world that you were here, and safe, with us. Us, darling – I'm beginning to comprehend it, finally. It seems easier now that you know!_

_I'm pleased to hear you're settled alright, dear, and that it isn't too awful. Please, Matthew, I know you won't want to worry me but please – however awful it is – do tell me. I'd rather know than not, and I shall worry anyway, so I might as well know what about! _

_Do take care, dearest Matthew. I love you, I love you so very much, and am always thinking of you. Write to me as soon as you have a moment, I know you must have so much to think of._

_With all my very fondest love,  
>Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>December 26<em>_th__ 1914_

_Darling Mary,_

_Merry Christmas, my dearest love. I hope you had a happy time, and were able to stomach some Christmas dinner! What I wouldn't have given for some of Mrs Bird's turkey, I tell you. What I wouldn't have given to have been with you, darling. I missed you terribly. _

_That aside, I've had simply the most extraordinary Christmas, I hardly know what to write. We were all cheered a little to receive a gift from Princess Mary, of all people. An engraved brass box with a card, and sweets or cigarettes. It's done a wonder for morale; it's just so simply rotten to be sitting here at Christmas. Though she could've sent me one hundred such boxes and they wouldn't have meant as much to me as just a line from you, my own, dear Mary. Thank you for the gift, darling – you needn't have at all, but what a lovely idea – a lucky charm. Did you have it with you coming to find me in Manchester? I promise to bring it back without a scratch, dear. He'll be in my pocket every time I'm out. Thank you._

_But then, you wouldn't believe it. Some lads thought they heard singing – there's enough of it about but this was different, it was the German lines singing Christmas carols, and one or two of our chaps joined in. Next thing I knew, we heard that a company up the line were over the top playing bloody football with them. Football, in the middle of that awful space between our lines. Mary, it was extraordinary. I went up once I was sure it was safe, and joined in for a while. Incredible. But do you know, I couldn't, not for long. They're just men, Mary; ordinary, clever, hopeless men , and today the shelling started again only now I know that they're not just "The Germans", they're men. God, this war. So much, I suppose, for 'it'll all be over by Christmas'._

_Do you know what, though, darling? Yesterday, I think for the first day at all since at least I have been here, nobody died. Not one. And surely, at Christmastime, that is something that is worth celebrating._

_I wish you the happiest, brightest Christmas, Mary, for you and Baby and all our family. _

_Yours with all my love,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>19<em>_th__ January 1915_

_My dear, dear Matthew,_

_How I wish there was something I could do. Thank you for being truthful, darling, I can't imagine how it is for you, but I couldn't bear for you to try to cover it. You'd find it difficult to believe, but it gives me greater comfort than to know nothing of it. You do what is needed to keep your men and your country safe, darling, there's little more admirable than that – though I know it must be hard to remember when you must do such terrible things._

_You asked for diversion, so I hope it will provide some amusement to know that your dear mother is as enthusiastic as ever to offer me advice and remedies of comfort, which seem to get more incredible by the day! I fear everyone thinks me far more fragile than I am. I'm hardly a delicate flower! Mama has me wrapped in cotton; in fact I think Papa is even worse. They try to hide their hope for a boy, but their efforts are poor. Our mothers are in the midst of battle on whether it shall be Robert or Reginald... I'm tempted we should name him Edward, if it comes to it, what do you think?_

_Don't be a hero, darling. Stay safe. Think of me when you need strength, and know that I shall always, always be thinking of you. _

_With all my dearest love,  
>Your Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>21<em>_st__ January 1915_

_Dear Lady Mary,_

_Please forgive my apparent impertinence, and accept this note on behalf of Lieutenant Crawley, who's entreated me to write to you without delay. I beg you do not be alarmed; he's beside me now and in good enough spirits, and asks that I inform you of an injury he sustained yesterday. He assures you that he's quite well, only unable to write himself due to the nature of the wound, and was anxious that you be informed before any concern might have arisen at his silence._

_You're no doubt in fret, and so he bids me tell you that the injury is a pretty nasty gash up the inner arm, received whilst acting under orders. Only a flesh wound, though it's all strapped up to heal so he won't have a free hand to write for another week while it mends. _

_He says not to worry, though he knows you will anyway, that he loves you dearly and will write as soon as he's able. If you wanted to write in the meantime, post to the usual address and the unit will send it on. _

_Yours, with regard,  
>Sergeant Davidson<em>

* * *

><p><em>16<em>_th__ February 1915_

_Darling Mary,_

_You simply can't know what joy your letters give me. Every one, darling, even if they were to each say the same thing, in the same way, every time – you know I would never tire of hearing it. Sometimes I still wonder if I didn't dream it all, it feels so long ago that we were together. If it was a dream though, darling, I only wish I'd have it every night. And often, I do; though I worry that memory has either faded and dulled it, or heightened it to fantasy. The moment I can see you again with my own eyes, touch you as I've longed to every day since we parted, cannot ever come soon enough for me, Mary. And I know that you will be every piece of the beautiful, wonderful imperfection that I remember you to be._

_I have to admit, darling, that your letter made me laugh; it brightened my day enormously. Your belly may well be so large now that you can't see your toes, but Mary, I can imagine nothing more beautiful. Just think of what you carry, darling – and how thankful I am. Besides, if you had the slightest fear of that it mars your beauty (I shan't even deign that with rebuttal!), I hope that your concern may be tempered by the current state of myself. No matter how repulsive you think yourself, my love, I beg you first to think of me. I think my socks are permanently fused to my feet. You wouldn't like to know how rarely it seems worth the effort to change. My one concession there might be to cleanliness, a bath upon our withdrawal to the village every two weeks, is obscured by the fact that by the time I reach it after letting the men go first (I have a sort of bed, at least, and a shelter over my head, I think I can give them this) the water is the very antithesis of 'clean'. I can safely say, my very dear Mary, that if you were to see me at this moment, Baby would quite fairly be kicking you in protest. _

_Don't ever, ever doubt my perception of you Mary – you are the most gloriously beautiful creature I have ever known, and I've no doubt that your condition only becomes you. I'm sorry to have laughed at your concern, but really, Mary... Oh, I love you._

_Look after yourself, my precious girl. Baby, too._

_Yours with the greatest affection,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>5<em>_th__ March 1915_

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I've been thinking. When your leave comes up in a few weeks, I've told Mama and Papa that I intend for you and I to stay together at Crawley House. They seemed a little surprised, though I can't see why – it's your house, it should be our house if you were here as you should be under any normal circumstance! If it weren't for the obvious, you know, I sometimes wonder if they'd have half forgotten. Your dear mother has even said she'll find somewhere to stay for the few days, to give us some privacy!_

_Whatever, I'm determined. It feels so close, now, Matthew! Three weeks, after so long. I feel as though I could bear that easily, though at the same time it feels the longest time in the world. To think, in the seven months now of our marriage, only two days of those have we been together. Two days, Matthew… And then what, a few days more, then further months of being apart? How much longer will we have to snatch moments of our marriage like this? I want this beastly war to be over! I want us to have a real marriage, I want to live with you and share your bed, greet you when you arrive home and bring up our child with you by my side. It can't go on forever, can it? _

_Stay safe, darling. I think Baby knows that you're coming home, soon, I've had such little peace!_

_With the very fondest love,  
>Mary.<em>

* * *

><p><em>20<em>_th__ March 1915_

_My darling Mary,_

_It's good to hear everything is fixed at last. It makes it seem that much more real. To think, that only a few days more and then I'll be with you – I can hardly believe it. In fact, Mary, this will likely be the last chance I get to write before then; by the time you receive this it'll only be a day or two._

_We're on our last day's rest before heading back for our final stint on the front line, and then… home. Just one more round of hell to get through. _

_Darling Mary… To say simply that I miss you, that I'm longing to see you, does the greatest injustice to my feelings. You know, Mary, that it runs far deeper than that. _

_Do you know, I can't even muster the words. Only that I love you, my darling, and we don't have much longer to wait. I can bear anything with that hope._

_I love you, Mary. Thank God. _

_Yours, as ever,  
>Matthew<em>

**TBC**_  
><em>

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! Hopefully the letters format made enough sense! It struck me as an interesting way to cover the time jump before his leave, without missing too much of their development over that time. Anyway, I'd love to know what you think - I've been really touched by your comments, I really do appreciate every one! Thank you!_

_Next time... We get Matthew back! Woooooooooo!  
><em>


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _Apologies for the delay on this one! I'm on half term now, so hopefully... might try and get another chapter out before the end of the week! We'll see..._

_I'm really overwhelmed by all the alerts/reviews/favourites for this fic. Thank you so much, it's incredibly rewarding to know so many people are enjoying it - thank you._

_On to chapter 11, then! Matthew's home. Gets a little bit M._

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

"Shall I take these upstairs, Milday?"

Mary peered at the vase of flowers before her, taking one out and rearranging it to her satisfaction, before turning towards the hallway.

"Yes, Anna, please. I'll show you where…" Mary sounded distracted as she showed the maid up, and pushed open the door to Matthew's bedroom in Crawley House. _Their_ bedroom, she thought, with a tentative smile. _Finally_.

"Would you like them in here?"

"Yes. These two drawers are clear – here – and in the cabinet, there. Thank you."

Anna nodded and set about unpacking Mary's things. Mary eased down into a chair and watched, as her dresses and undergarments were neatly folded into Matthew's furniture. It seemed a little strange, her things in a man's bedroom, but at the same time so perfectly natural…

She _was_ distracted. Tomorrow, Matthew would be home. He'd be _home_. He'd be _here_. The thought was almost too wonderful to comprehend. She'd long grown used to an almost perpetual ache of longing for him, there so often that it simply seemed a part of her, now. Wincing a little, she pressed her hand to her belly, where she could feel her child shift and kick, as though it could sense Mary's own tremulous excitement. He'd been away so long; their time together seemed a lifetime ago, and the prospect of seeing him again like merely some wonderful dream.

Raising herself with some difficulty, she stretched and paced slowly, rubbing her back.

"Are you alright, Milday?" Anna turned from the dresser, a familiar expression of concern over her features.

"Quite alright," Mary smiled tightly against her discomfort. "Baby's fussing, is all."

"Can I fetch you anything?"

"No, no, it's alright thank you. I'll just walk it off a little." She sucked in a steadying breath, and left Anna to her work.

As she made her way slowly downstairs, Mary allowed herself a warm, indulgent smile, murmuring softly down at her belly as she only ever did when alone.

"You're right to be excited, my little one. Your Papa is the best of all people, and we love him, very, very much. He loves _you_ very much already!" The thought of Matthew as _Papa_ was such a wonderfully happy one, still more so than the thought of herself as a mother, she wanted to laugh with delight as much as weep with sadness that he would be absent for so much of it.

"And when he's here," she carried on absently, "you can hear him for yourself rather than I, talking to you _of_ him all the time, for Papa has a beautiful voice that would soothe you much better than I can. And you shall have to listen very carefully, and treasure every word, because he shan't be here for very long so we'll have to remember…"

Her rambling, nonsensical words faded on her lips as she looked up upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, and saw upon the table by the door a folded green coat, and a military cap on top of it. With a sharp gasp, she swayed and had to steady herself against the wall where she remained for a moment, frozen, her pulse racing furiously and her breath struggling to come at all.

Slowly, painfully slowly, once she could dare to, Mary turned around.

"My darling…" Matthew pushed himself off the doorframe of the sitting room, against which he'd been leaning, and stepped forwards with a trembling, breathless smile.

Time seemed to stand still between them, the moment too precious, as if it could shatter at the slightest thing. Silently, they stared at each other, taking in every little change and detail that was different from the last time they'd looked upon each other. Matthew's eyes shone with the enormity of his love, his entire countenance becoming overwhelmingly tender.

"You're – here!" Mary eventually gasped out. She didn't dare step any closer, not yet entirely sure that he wasn't simply a vision of her overwrought emotions. She couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely speak – he was _here_, in front of her, her dear, beautiful _Matthew_.

"Not quite the greeting I expected, darling," he answered warmly, shifting nervously on his feet. It had been so long, so very, _very_ long it seemed, and he was thrown by the reality of the moment that he'd imagined to himself so many times over the months. "I've only this moment come in, I didn't realise you were here… I managed to catch an earlier boat, in fact I'd wondered if I might arrive today but hadn't wanted to get your hopes up – darling –"

Mary blinked, and seemed to shake herself.

"Of course! Oh – Matthew – dear, dear Matthew!"

She felt as though her face could break apart with her smile. Every dream she'd had of his return paled next to the solid, undeniable fact of his presence. She was only dimly aware of him coming slowly towards her, approaching and coming closer and gradually eclipsing everything else from her perception as she trembled in anticipation. She was transfixed.

"Look at you…" Matthew breathed in wonder, as he reached her but remained a step away, casting his eyes over her with the greatest fondness. Mary smiled nervously, accepting with a rush of relief that she'd had no reason to fear his reaction to her – of course she'd had no reason! "My darling, beautiful girl."

Carefully, gently, almost with reverence, he laid a hand on her belly, a gesture that flooded Mary with the most wonderful tension that she worried she'd shatter right there. With breathless joy, she covered his hand with her own, and stepped closer towards him.

"I think we both are a little changed since last we met," she said softly, her other hand lifting to touch his cheek, as if to once and for all confirm his presence to her. She could see immediately that he'd changed; his face was thinner, he was leaner, a light scar ran down over his jaw and she traced her finger lightly along it. It only made him appear even more handsome in her eyes, if such a thing were possible.

"And yet, not so very much, I think," he whispered before cupping her cheek, and easing towards her.

Electric anticipation hung thick in the air between them, intensifying beyond belief as their lips brushed together with the softest of touches, the simple gesture sending shockwaves through them. Already breathless, Mary rested her forehead against his, allowing some air to return to her lungs and her pulse to calm before she tilted her head once more, inhaling deeply and allowing him to fill her every sense before she touched his lips again, and she gave in to the soft, delicious warmth of them moving against hers. Oh, she had missed him, had missed this…

Just as their kiss began to deepen in the sweetest remembrance of affection, Matthew broke away with a gasp when he felt a sharp movement against his hand. Mary's laugh sparkled with affection at his shock, and she grasped his hand delightedly.

"You see, darling, Baby is just as terribly glad to have you home as I am!" she smiled. "Now, shall we call for some tea?"

Still smiling broadly in pure happiness, Mary passed him, though her remaining grip on his hand pulled him after her down the hall and into the sitting room. He followed her, meekly, but once they were in he stopped and pulled her around to face him again.

"Yes, I – in a moment, but, first – how _are_ you?" He took her face gently in his hands, stroked his thumbs fondly over her cheeks, thinking there was so much that he wanted to say to her.

She looked over him, cocking her head with a gentle smile, resting her hands contentedly on his hips.

"Perfectly, perfectly well."

"Good," he murmured.

"What about you, dear?" she asked, her tone deepening with seriousness as she looked at him carefully. She could tell, without even really looking, that he'd been through so much – she'd known from his letters, of course, but it was etched indelibly all across his dear face, his very being. And oh, how she wanted, so desperately, to take away everything that had pained him.

His lips twitched into an affectionate, meaningful smile.

"At this moment, my dear, I couldn't possibly imagine being better."

Mary nodded. All that could save for later; for now, he was home, they were together, and it was all that mattered. He'd come back to her. To _them_.

As he kissed her again, pulling her warmly into his embrace, she sighed happily and leaned in to him, as much as she was able. The feel of his arms around her, his lips on hers and on her skin, was the most blissful pleasure, every bit as sweet and comforting and delicious and glorious as she had remembered – even more so, after so many months' longing and absence.

She offered no resistance, was hardly even aware of it, when he lowered her into his chair and sank to his knees before her, without ever pausing in his kisses. Her lips parted under his, needing no encouragement, and they re-learnt each other with a desperate urgency, craving this closeness that had been denied them in Matthew's absence.

Mary sank back into the chair as Matthew knelt over her, feeling his hand slip under her skirts to raise them enough to allow him to shuffle closer between her legs. Her arms hung around his neck and she clutched at his hair, whimpering softly in need for him… He kissed her deeply, so wonderfully deeply but not enough, then his lips fell from hers to trail a blazing path down over her jaw-line, to her neck, her throat, sucking gently at her skin that was just as soft, sweet and delicate as he had dreamed of. To feel her under him, so warm and alive and responsive, seemed to reaffirm every belief he'd worried he'd lost in the trenches. Belief in humanity, in care, in life itself, all of it he found in her, and she welcomed him.

He carried on kissing her, down over her chest, to her belly, learning every new and changed curve. She held his head tenderly, grinned in breathless pleasure as he paid loving attention to her rounded stomach, covering her with affectionate kisses that intensified as he worked his way back up to her lips. He'd missed her, so much, and could not claim her again quickly enough… He needed her, craved her, _loved_ her for everything that she was to him.

Everything, the world around them, seemed to fade to insignificance as they found each other again. As Mary felt her husband's hand slide under her dress to graze up her thigh, having longed for his touch there again so fiercely that it now made her shudder, she let her head fall back in pleasure and bit back a groan.

Matthew's fingers were searching, seeking… finding, as they reached warm silk and quickly slipped beneath. His lips were hot on her neck, on her collar-bone, as his fingers sank into her deliciously familiar warmth and he felt her shudder under his touch.

"Are we alone?" he murmured against her skin, the question punctuated by hot, quick flicks of his tongue.

"Anna –" she gasped in a hushed whisper as his fingers stroked incessantly over her, sending familiar ripples of heat through her body. "Upstairs, and –" Another gasp, "Molesley, but –" His teeth grazing over her covered breast made the words stick in her throat, until she managed to hiss out, "Don't stop!"

"As you wish," he lifted his head and met her eyes with dark, intent passion for a beautiful, fleeting second before kissing her deeply once more, banishing all other thought to irrelevance. Her hands grasped desperately at him, at his hair, his jacket, shoulders, anything to hold him close and ground herself to him. Her quiet moan was lost into his mouth… She could feel him within her, feel every stroke of his fingers and the brush of his thumb over her, in time with the slip of his tongue over hers, and she trembled violently under him.

He quickened, quickened everything, driving his fingers deep into her with an increasingly frantic urgency, and she rocked against him as much as she was able, as every fibre of her coiled and wound into tight, unbearable, wonderful tension. As she splintered and came apart under him, Matthew covered her moans of pleasure with desperate, possessive kisses so that the sound of her ecstasy was lost in his mouth. She trembled, and he held her, kneeling up a little more once she'd calmed, slipping his hand from beneath her skirts and pulling her into his arms.

"Darling," she whispered breathlessly as she sat forwards into his embrace. "Darling, darling Matthew."

"I've missed you, so much," he murmured, pressing warm, affectionate kisses just under her ear, feeling her hot skin and fluttering pulse under his lips.

They were so lost in their quiet contentment that they almost missed the click of the front door. It was only at the sound of footsteps and Molesley's usual, bright greeting in the hallway that they realised. Matthew sprang up from his knees, straightening his jacket as Mary frantically rearranged her skirts, thanking all her stars that Isobel had not arrived only moments earlier.

The door swung open.

"Matthew!" Isobel exclaimed in delight when she saw her son.

"Hello, Mother," he smiled awkwardly as she moved to kiss his cheek, hoping desperately that there was no obvious sign of their activity.

"We didn't expect you til tomorrow! What a lovely surprise! Mary must be thrilled," her eyes moved past him to Mary, still seated.

"Yes!" Mary smiled, overly brightly, feeling her cheeks colour as she patted her hair nervously. "I am, yes, of course. Thrilled to have him back in one piece." She blushed deeper as Matthew caught her eye, his lip quirking knowingly.

"Are you quite well, dear? You look a little flushed." Though it did have its blessings, Mary desperately wished sometimes that her mother-in-law was _not_ a nurse, and did _not_ pick up on physical signs so quickly.

"Yes, I'm quite alright – Baby's been fussing a little, but I'm sure it's just –"

" – just the excitement, of course, dear."

"Yes."

Mary stood up and twisted her hands anxiously, torn between her desire to look at Matthew, to savour his presence and look at him every moment that she could, and the knowledge that if she did at this moment, she couldn't very well hold her composure.

"Well, how about some tea?" Isobel wondered. There seemed a sense of awkwardness in the room, though she couldn't think why, and tea seemed a perfectly viable solution. "Then you can tell us how you've been, Matthew!"

The two women sat down but Matthew remained standing, resting his hand upon the mantelpiece. As he addressed his mother, Mary took the opportunity to look at him, really look at him, for the first time. It went without saying that his uniform sat well on him, that alone was distracting enough… But it was more than that; he stood taller, straighter somehow, and held himself with a sort of pride that he hadn't before. His features seemed not quite so soft as they had been, there was almost a weariness of experience in his expression, but… he seemed only the more handsome for it.

A pang of guilt flitted through her, that she should be admiring the effects wrought upon him by the experiences he had suffered. A gentle frown crossed her face, as she wished that she could remove it all from him, every mark and scar, both of his body and his mind; though somehow she understood that it had shaped him. Her Matthew, now, _was_ a soldier – she had never expected that they could revert back to how they had been together in Manchester, too much had changed, but – it was alright. She loved him, so very, very dearly, he was still her _Matthew_, and he was _home_.

"Actually," Matthew hesitated, "do you – think we could go up to the Abbey?" He turned to Mary. "I know it's strange to think, but I've not seen your mother and father since – well, since I left, and – I would like to see them."

"Of course, they'd be very glad to see you, darling."

"You don't mind, Mother?" He blinked questioningly at her, knowing she'd likely been looking forward to spending some real time with him. "Only I feel I owe it to them, and besides, I may as well have my tales of duty out in one sitting, though there's really not much to tell."

"Not at all, dear." Isobel understood perfectly. It was strange, how they were all so accustomed to Mary's condition and situation, now, yet… Matthew had been here for none of it. "Molesley can call for the car at once."

Matthew nodded as she went to arrange it, and found himself – without even having thought about it – by Mary's side. He looked down at her warmly, affectionately tucking back a misplaced strand of her hair. Before he had time to really think, or to speak to her about anything deeper than relief at the timeliness of his mother's entrance, Isobel had returned.

"Sit down, Matthew dear, while we wait," she insisted. Smiling, Matthew obeyed. "Now, then, how are you?"

From across the room, Mary saw his gaze turn to her before he answered, feeling the warm excitement of even so small an attention. She smiled tremulously, covering her belly with a protective hand, thrilled beyond measure that he was at last here with them.

There was only one thing Matthew could possibly answer, at this moment, and his eyes shone with warmth

"Simply very, very glad to be home."

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! In all honesty, I have no idea where this fic is going, no grand, overarching scheme, I'm just enjoying writing it and seeing where they go - I hope that's alright! But hopefully there's a fair bit more to come. I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are very very lovely to get! Thank you!_


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: _After the trainwreck of emotions that was the finale of Series 2, I just had to write something happy... Et, voila :)_

_My enormous, heartfelt thanks go out to everyone reading and enjoying this fic, and for all your feedback in whatever form it comes - I appreaciate it so much!_

_As a point of interest, I had an idea this week of where to take this fic. I've decided to essentially write around the major (M/M) plot points of series 2, but obviously with Matthew and Mary as they are now - married, with Baby on the way (shortly to arrive!), as I thought what happens to Matthew would be FASCINATING to explore with Mary as his wife, and that security. __So it won't be a series 2 rewrite, but will take those major points, as it were, and evolve around those. I'll warn you when any spoilers come up, though, because I won't get there for a few chapters yet. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy that direction, I'm really looking forward to writing it!_

_But for now, here is Chapter 12 - I hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Twelve<span>**

"There's no need to look so nervous, darling!"

"I know," Matthew smiled shyly, as he gave Mary's hand a little squeeze for his own comfort. "It's been such a long time, for you, and I know it must have blown over months ago, but – well, the last time I was here, things were so different – I can't help it seeming a little strange."

Mary turned to him. "No, Matthew – this is simply how it _should_ be – how it _would_ be, if the world were at all fair."

Rubbing his arm reassuringly, she smiled a little wider, before turning back to look expectantly at the door, tapping her fingers on his arm with just the faintest impatience. She didn't think she'd ever rung the bell here, before – how tedious it was to wait – she'd never thought how much time it must take for Carson to come up from whatever he'd been doing. But how could she mind?

This _was_ how it should be. Waiting to arrive at her parents' home, to be announced, on the arm of her husband. This was how it should have been for eight months, and now she could not stop smiling, could not stop touching him (even in the smallest way), just to remind herself that he was really here.

Finally, the ornate door swung open, and Mary beamed at Carson. The butler met her eye, betraying his fondness just for a moment, before seamlessly resuming his role.

"Lieutenant Crawley; if I may say, Sir, it is a pleasure to receive you once more at Downton."

Matthew's eyes widened at the warmth of the greeting. "It's – an enormous pleasure to _be_ back, Carson – thank you." The last time he'd visited Lord Grantham before his rash departure, Carson had been verging upon icy towards him – and though he didn't quite understand it, he was nevertheless grateful for the kindness now.

"Well, good. If you'll follow me, Lord and Lady Grantham are expecting you, and Lady Mary, in the drawing room."

As they followed through the hallway, Mary leant on Matthew's arm, unable to stop picturing their future in this house, a far off dream though it seemed, at the moment. One day – far in the future, she couldn't help but hope – he would make a fine Earl. How she'd ever scorned the thought, she wasn't quite sure now; could only look back on that time as a fond, amusing memory.

Nearing the door, she felt his hand cover her own on his arm, felt him draw strength from the simple touch in his deep breath, the way he set his shoulders just before they went in. It struck her, as Carson opened the door before them, that this was the first time they had arrived anywhere together, properly, in this manner. Her heart swelled with happiness. Being aware of the thought, she hung upon Carson's announcement of them, storing the words up in her mind to take pleasure in.

"Lieutenant Crawley, and Lady Mary Crawley, your Lordship."

"Matthew, my dear fellow."

Mary could take only the briefest moment to savour their entrance, before her husband was near torn from her grasp by the enthusiastic greeting of her father. As the two men shook hands firmly, Mary caught her mother's watchful eye upon her, and they shared an unspoken moment of joy.

"Lord Grantham, thank you for your welcome – I know that –"

"Well, what else would you expect from us?" Robert practically glowed. "Do come in."

Matthew smiled, a little unsure, and licked his lips. "I know, but you see – how I left – I am sorry. I know it caused difficulty, with – Mary, and – well, you know all that. I'm sure it all feels a very long time ago now – Lord knows it feels a lifetime ago to me! But I do mean it."

Robert's gaze deepened a fraction, recognising his young heir's wish to close the apology properly. It had been hard at the time, unutterably hard, and he couldn't deny the sense of betrayal that had hung about the thought of Matthew, and his darling daughter, those first few months. But it had softened with Matthew's letter, the sincerity of it had flowed from the page and Robert's fondness for the young man had overtaken, and once Mary had revealed her condition… No, he could never have remained bitter for any great length of time.

"I accept that, and I thank you for it. But it's water under the bridge now, dear chap," he smiled, and clapped Matthew's shoulder warmly. Stepping back, he looked over the pair with sincerity. "I haven't ever seen Mary glow as she has done these few months – and, I see, even more so now you are returned."

"Well, I…" Matthew blushed, grinned shyly at Mary then back at Robert. "If that's the case, it's all I could wish for." His smile widened as he felt Mary take his hand.

The rest of the greetings made, everyone took a seat. Mary gladly accepted Matthew's hand in assistance, and couldn't help but be pleased when he did not hesitate in then sitting next to her, so close that the air between them tingled, but distant enough for propriety. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, finding it necessary to still her urge to touch his knee, his arm, his hand… Glancing up at him, she wondered if the barely noticeable tension in his jaw was from the same restraint.

"So Matthew," Cora breezed while Carson brought the tea things in. "How do you find that things have changed, since you left?"

"Oh, not so much I suppose – for the most part," he smiled politely, shifting a little, not liking so much attention on him. "It's rather a comfort to find things quite the same."

"Though with one or two notable exceptions," Cora grinned rather pointedly between him and Mary.

"Of course – " Matthew blustered, colouring a little.

"I suppose Mary has told you how we've argued over names," the Countess laughed, oblivious to Matthew's discomfort at speaking of such personal matters – when they were all so naturally used to it, now. She could not notice it, was too taken by how purely delighted Mary looked, how her very countenance shone, and how very, very right they looked together.

"She has," he smiled, his joy beginning to shine through his awkwardness.

"And what do you think, Matthew? It would be so fitting for –"

"Cora, dear, let them make their own minds up," Robert chided her fondly.

"I'm sure it'll come easier now that we're acquainted, at least," Matthew grew easier as he felt Mary's fingers close lightly around his hand, giving him confidence – her very presence beside him gave him confidence.

"Poor Matthew got quite a shock when Baby kicked him earlier," Mary rubbed his hand affectionately. "Anyway, I've been thinking, and it shan't be either Bobbie or Reginald, I'm afraid."

"Oh?" Matthew twisted to face her, brows rising in surprise.

"Mm," Mary moistened her lips, squeezing his hand distractedly in his lap, gazing down somewhere between them. "I thought – Patrick." Looking up, she met his eyes and smiled with enormous fondness. "You see, if it were not for Patrick – well, we should never have known you even, and – that seems quite unthinkable. Don't you think?"

Matthew forgot for a moment that they were in company, and his gaze certainly implied it as he looked at her in adoration.

"I think… Darling, that would suit me very well."

From across the room, Cora watched them, and caught Robert's eye. It had seemed strange, Mary's devotion, at first – when they had only seen the pair struggle with their misunderstandings and stubbornness. It had been hard to believe. They'd grown used to the idea, come to believe it, but – to see them together, hand in hand and talking of their child – it was quite beautiful. She smiled proudly, thinking what a handsome couple they made. Things couldn't have worked out better – if only Matthew didn't have to go back to that beastly war!

After some more chatter over all things Baby, Matthew slowly finding it easier to talk of it like this, he picked up his teacup. It all felt slightly surreal. He'd barely been back for an hour, and was sitting with his wife and the Earl and Countess of Grantham, in the grand Abbey that was to be their home one day, sipping tea as though so little had changed… The teacup rattled as he placed it back in the saucer.

"Are you alright, Matthew?" Robert questioned, noticing the pallor that suddenly crossed his face. Mary looked to him, a gentle frown of concern crossing her features. Though she'd never mentioned it to him, she _had_ worried… Wondered how he would manage, being used to things so terrible, how he would feel coming back to such a life as this.

"Perfectly," he insisted, though his voice sounded less certain. Smiling weakly, he placed down his cup and saucer. "It's only – I can hardly think of the last time I took tea from a china teacup." It seemed so fragile, so delicate, like Mary – his precious, dear Mary, and that which she carried... He swallowed and tried to quash his unease.

"Darling?" Mary touched his hand. He looked sideways at her, with the barest shake of his head. Not now.

"I can barely imagine," Cora tutted sympathetically (though how one could be sympathetic over china teacups, of all things, seemed beyond Matthew). "The papers are so bleak, Matthew, I wonder how you can live like it… Is it truly that awful?"

Somehow he seemed to withdraw into himself, just a fraction, his gaze seeming suddenly far away.

"Well, it's – I can't really – I'm not sure I could tell you," he said with difficulty.

Mary wanted to smack her mother for being so unthinking. Cora did look a little apologetic, then, as she nodded understandingly.

Matthew was sorry for causing any discomfort, and raised a smile. "I think it's easy to reckon which existence I prefer," he said wryly. Existence was the right term for it, for the two were so incomparable.

Trying to shift from any conversation that might cause tension, and also having realised the time, Robert said brightly, "Now, then. You'll join us for dinner, won't you? Sybil and Edith should be back shortly, they're in Ripon this afternoon."

Matthew glanced at Mary, before his attention returned to Robert.

"I'm afraid we're neither of us dressed for dinner, I hadn't thought –"

"Oh, as if that matters!" Robert insisted. "It isn't too late for Molesley to send some things over, not at all."

"Actually, Papa, I think Matthew and I should like to dine at Crawley House this evening," Mary spoke out. Smiling at Matthew, she knew he'd have been too afraid to refuse any invitation of her father's.

"Oh. Are you sure, dear?" Robert pressed.

"Quite sure," Mary breezed, taking Matthew's hand. "But thank you, all the same."

"We'd be glad to join you tomorrow evening, as we originally planned," Matthew found his voice again, looking appreciatively at the elder pair. "And while it's very kind of you to extend the invitation to this evening, I – would like to spend it with Mary. I hope you won't mind."

"No, not at all. And your dear mother will be joining us then, can I assume?"

"So long as that's alright," Matthew nodded, seeking assurance. "We don't want to impose on you at all –"

"No, my dear boy, it's perfectly alright," Robert insisted. "Of course you'd like to see each other this evening, I quite understand."

Matthew blushed, wondering if he really did… Hoping that he did not. That simply didn't do to think of!

"Mary, though, Mrs Bird won't be expecting it," Cora remembered. She didn't want to impede them, naturally, but this was the first step in Mary taking her own house, and it just didn't do to spring dinners unannounced upon cooks!

"We'll manage, Mama," Mary said decidedly.

* * *

><p>This, Mary decided, must be what people spoke of as wedded bliss – she had used to think such a concept impossible. Then, she thought she had known it in Manchester – that perfect day, spent only in his arms, at utter liberty with each other.<p>

But that had been a dream, it could not be real life.

This, though… The wonderfully simple pleasure of sitting at a table with her husband, dining together, in their own home – _their_ home – with nothing else to think of… It was, she decided, utter bliss. Molesley stood respectfully in the corner between serving their meagre courses, though they didn't care for the food however grand or pitiful it might have been. Mary barely even tasted it. She was pleased they had come back, their time together was so preciously short… And she wasn't sure she could have borne an evening so soon in company, having to demonstrate restraint and propriety when she had been aching for him so long…

They did retire to the sitting room once their meal was finished, in a show of proper behaviour. But a show was all it was, for it was barely any time at all before their talk turned to kisses, turned to caresses…

"Shall we go to bed, darling?" Matthew whispered heavily between his tender teasing of her lips.

From where she lay reclined on the settee, arms draped around his neck, Mary nodded breathlessly.

"I'd only been waiting for when it would not be thought too soon," she murmured. "Though I suppose – we may do as we like, in our own house?"

"As we like indeed," Matthew said, even as his lips lowered again to hers for another deep, searching kiss.

As they reached the stairs, Anna appeared in the hallway from the kitchen. Cora had kindly loaned her to Mary a day early; Isobel did not have a ladies maid, not truly, and Mary was so fond of Anna anyway.

"Forgive me, Lady Mary," she hastily excused herself from any embarrassment. "Shall you be needing anything this evening?"

She twisted her hands together, knowing she must ask, but rather suspecting she knew the answer. Mary smiled widely, looking utterly content with Matthew on the step above, his hand possessively resting on her lower back.

"No, Anna. I'll be alright for tonight, thank you. I'll ring if I do need anything."

"Very well, Milady." Smiling, Anna bobbed and retreated.

"Well," Matthew murmured deeply, rubbing his hand over Mary's back. "Shall we?"

Mary took his hand, and followed him upstairs, her heart pounding deliciously.

The moment the door closed, Mary sank back against it as Matthew's hands rested either side of her head when he moved to kiss her, pressing his body sweetly to hers. Oh, she had missed the feel of him… Now they were alone, in the privacy of their bedroom, their clothes began swiftly to fall to the floor to the accompaniment of soft sighs, heavy breaths, the whisper of silk and cotton sliding against skin as it shed…

Down to her barest negligee, Mary's hands slipped into Matthew's shirt, and she smiled as he shivered at her touch. Her fingers traced lightly over his torso as her lips fell to his chest, searching out every new fleck on his skin, every little scratch and scar, and mending each with soft kisses. When she pushed his shirt over his shoulders, and it slipped to the floor, she gasped as she saw his arm and the wound there.

"Matthew… Oh, my darling." Taking his hand and turning it palm upwards, she gently traced her fingers up the long, raised scar that ran nearly all the way up his inner arm, the flesh raised and reddened where the raw edges had knitted together. Matthew swallowed as his eyes tracked the progress of her fingers, then her lips as she re-traced her path, gasping as he felt her tongue skim over every ridge on his skin.

With one last, tender kiss she raised her eyes to his, still clasping his hand. Licking his lips, he led her to sit on the bed, and they sat back together against the pillows, Mary tucked snugly into his chest. His hand wandered protectively over her belly, growing accustomed to the feel of her, as he answered her unspoken question.

"I was very lucky," he spoke softly into her hair, trembling slightly at the memory. "I stumbled in a German line, over a – well, that doesn't matter – but I fell on my back. A Hun went for me, I managed to roll quick enough for him to just catch my arm – that's all there is to it, darling. It was really nothing,"

"Nothing as it was, perhaps. But very nearly something," her voice caught as she realised, her throat constricting against threatening tears. If he hadn't have moved quickly enough, that gash would be… She swallowed and clutched his arm tighter around her.

"And yet it wasn't," he tried to reassure her, pressing soft kisses to her head. "We must not think of 'nearly', my dear… It was nothing, and that is all."

"Thank you for telling me," she whispered, running her fingers down the rough skin once more. It was beautiful to her, he was beautiful…

"Of course," he breathed. Easing her to sit forward, he tenderly removed all else that she (and he) wore, and within the briefest moments they were naked together and it felt right. Shifting to sit beside her, he looked down at her changed body, running his hand over her in wonder, every new curve, hardly able to take it in. He lowered his head and kissed her belly, felt her hand slide into his hair, did not startle this time when he felt their child shift within her… Tears sprang to the back of his eyes as he thought of all that she was, all that she carried… Oh, he loved her.

Carefully, he stretched out beside her, running his hand lightly over her body. "How can I make you comfortable, darling?" he wondered. Utterly beyond speech, Mary simply smiled, shook her head and kissed him.

Naturally, organically, they shifted together, concentrating only on sharp thrums of sensation where their hot skin touched…. Until they lay, with Matthew's arm curled lovingly over her side, his lips against her neck, her ear, and she squirmed back against him, burning with warm, slow, heavy desire. He nipped at her ear, whispered softly to her as he held her, and entered her, releasing a low groan at the feel of her around him, so welcome after so long. So long… And yet it was only the fourth night they had lain together like this, in so many months of marriage. The heady anticipation made it all the sweeter, and as he gently shifted within her, shivers of pleasure rippled through him.

As they moved together, almost blind in the darkness, everything honed upon their touch, Mary gasped at every slow, deep thrust. She felt utterly completed, utterly fulfilled, this was how it was meant to be… The two of them, her darling husband, with her and in her and his arms around her, just like this… His hand pressed to her belly, and she covered it with her own, but as he reached deep within her she eased his hand up to her breasts, biting her lip against a groan as his rough fingers teased over her sensitive skin in the most marvellous way. Oh, _Matthew_… His name swirled in her head, then spilled from her lips in the softest breaths as he pleasured her and loved her and taunted her, skimming his hand down, down to the warmth that he loved, and she jerked back against him as he touched her. His lips were on her shoulder, she felt him everywhere, could comprehend nothing but him…

"Matthew," she whispered, gasped, as he filled her completely with another deep stroke.

"My darling…" His voice was low, heavy with arousal, she could feel his sweat against her back and…

"I want to see you," her voice caught as he thrust again, in time with the tease of his hand on her breasts… "Dearest Matthew, I want…"

He understood. Pressing a tender kiss just beneath her ear, he withdrew with a low hiss of breath, and shifted to lie over her as she rolled to her back. He was above her, over her, she could only make out the shadowy curve of his shoulders and chest, the glint of his eyes in the darkness as he lowered himself to her and filled her once more.

She let out a soft cry of pleasure, hips bucking instinctively up to meet him as her hands traced all over his chest, his darling face… As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see him, see his lips, his jaw, could see him gazing down at her with such love as she gladly sank into the pleasure of him…

Holding himself over her, careful of her charge, Matthew rested on his elbows and made love to her, kissed her, worshipped her body with his own. Her soft moans grew louder, she tried to bite them back until he covered them with his lips and they were lost in his mouth, her hands clutched at his hair as the frantic jerk of her hips suddenly spiralled into senseless pleasure and she pulsed around him in shuddering waves.

She was his, entirely and utterly his own, and love exploded within his chest as he quickened, until every stroke seemed to melt together into a single, purifying storm of arousal that suddenly broke over him, and he was dimly aware of her holding him tighter as he lost himself to her.

His arms trembled as he held himself over her, and reluctantly he rolled to her side, gasping at the separation as cool air flooded between them. Mary snuggled back into him, as he pulled the sheets over them before tucking his arm securely around her. Heavy breaths broke the perfect stillness of the air as they lay together in perfect wholeness.

They were together, and it was so wonderfully right. Mary smiled indulgently, feeling her pulse still flutter erratically from their love-making, savouring the feel of his entire body against her back. _Matthew_. For the first time, she felt as though truly, truly, they were husband and wife – even more so than all these months yet passed. For they were at last together, and truly together – in his house, in his bed, with the promise of their child under their clasped hands… This, she thought as she drifted into the most perfectly contented sleep – was marriage.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I certainly needed the happiness boost. I'd love to know what you thought, your comments mean so much to me - thank you! More to come soon!_


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: _Here we are, here we are, here we are again... In which Matthew finally has to face Violet. This is a hefty chapter, I'll warn you now, but hope very much that you enjoy it!_

_Thank you so much for your continued support and feedback - I'm sorry I'm not getting round to responding to all reviews individually, I'm stupidly busy at work, but I do appreciate each one - thank you!_

_Huge thanks also to EOlivet for making sure it was readable, and for her endless encouragement!  
><em>

_Aaaand... enjoy! :)_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Thirteen<span>**

Mary was having a particularly delightful dream. The sort that, when you begin to awake, lingers in your mind like a sweet aftertaste… Blurring softly and gradually into reality leaving you utterly content.

She dreamt of Matthew – oh, she dreamed of him so often! – and though he was, in this instance, standing in a desolate trench surrounded by filthy mud, he was looking at her with his captivating blue eyes and smiling. Light shining through low, wistful clouds seemed to bathe him, and cover any idea of destruction around him, and he was walking towards her and singing… She'd never heard him sing but could imagine it perfectly, in his rich, beautiful voice, it sounded so clear to her, so real…

"_Keep the home fires burning, while…"_

Though the image was fading, and she gradually became aware of the warmth of sheets around her and the familiar, pressing weight on her belly, the song seemed to continue so clearly as if she could hear him singing it in this very room.

"…_though your lads are far away, they dream of home. There's a silver lining…" _

Her eyes fluttered open, and… He was _there_.

He was there, leaning over her belly with his hand resting there tenderly, gazing down with immeasurable warmth and affection, singing ever so softly. Mary's heart stabbed with love and she remained motionless, not wanting him to realise she'd woken up in case he should stop.

"…_turn the dark cloud inside out, 'till the boys come home."_

Having reached the end of the chorus, Matthew stopped, bent his head a little further and pressed a fond, warm kiss to her tautly curved skin, where he could feel their child shift gently beneath. Then, as if alerted by the strength of affection in Mary's gaze on him, he turned to look up at her with a little smile as he saw her wide, adoring eyes.

"Morning, darling," she whispered happily.

"Good morning," he murmured, picking her hand up and kissing it softly. "I'm sorry if I woke you." He sat up properly beside her. What utter, utter joy it was to have woken up beside her, in their own home, in their own bed. He blushed, feeling a little embarrassed that she'd woken to find him singing to their unborn child. He didn't really know what had possessed him… Only, her words from the day before had stuck in his mind; he wanted to leave _some_ impression on the babe, if it really could hear him, and… in the absence of any idea of what to _say_ to it, a familiar song had seemed a good idea. A song that promised hope, and assurance, that would let the child know that Matthew would always, always be thinking of them, and that no matter how dark it seemed, he would do his utmost to come home to them.

"You did," Mary smiled. She tugged him up closer to her, and kissed him, delighting in the freedom to do so. "But you mustn't apologise. In fact," she said, with a deep chuckle, "I seem to recall waking very pleasantly after every night I've spent with you!"

Matthew grinned, taking a moment to remember himself. "I see! Are you suggesting I'm creating something of a track record to live up to, darling?"

Mary laughed indulgently and draped her arms around his neck. Oh, it was so _nice_ to wake up with him! To feel the warmth of his body beside her, over her, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed…

"I rather worry that you are!"

And she let her eyes fall closed as he kissed her.

* * *

><p>As promised, after a pleasantly restful day at home (what a beautiful thought that was!), Matthew and Mary prepared to dine at the Abbey.<p>

After Molesley had brushed down the jacket of his dress uniform, and fixed the last of his regimental insignia badges to his lapels, Matthew went through from his dressing room and tapped lightly on the bedroom door. Hearing Mary's soft response, he pushed it open.

"I hope you don't mind me disturbing you," he asked – but he couldn't keep away from her. It made him smile, to see Mary sitting at his modest dresser with Anna behind her, putting the finishing touches to a simple, but elegant, hairstyle. Such peace, and normalcy, he found reassuring.

"Not at all, darling." Mary caught Anna's eye in the mirror, and smiled. Anna couldn't be happier for them; she'd lent a listening ear many times as Mary had cried over his absence, or delighted over his last letter, her words overflowing with affection and love. She understood, probably better than most, the greatest extent of Mary's devotion to him, and it warmed her heart now to see them reunited.

Then, Mary caught sight of Matthew in the mirror, and her eyes widened in appreciation.

"What?" Matthew mumbled, blushing under the weight of her gaze as he perched on the end of the bed to wait.

"Oh, nothing," Mary breathed, and her eyes fell to busying herself applying perfume. "That's rather a fine uniform, dear, that's all."

He smiled. "Well, it's not one I'd wear often. But I thought perhaps I'd give it an airing, being my first formal dinner on leave."

"Quite so!"

Anna pinned a tortoiseshell clip into the back of Mary's hair. "There we are, Lady Mary. Can I fetch you anything else?"

"No, Anna. Thank you." Mary's eyes were still fixed distractedly upon Matthew, and the fine red of his uniform. "Will you tell Molesley that we'll be down in a moment?"

"Of course, Milady. I hope you'll have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you, Anna," Matthew said warmly as the maid nodded respectfully and left them. He rose from the bed, and crossed the small distance to stand behind his wife.

Mary finished dabbing her perfume, and pulled her gloves on, and Matthew watched her familiar routine fondly. When she was ready, he held a hand out and helped her stand, rising with some difficulty from the stool.

"Why do you look so nervous tonight?" Mary laughed softly, laying a hand on his chest. "You've already cleared the hurdle of my parents… Edith may be snippy, at worst, but what would you care of that?"

"It's not Edith, and certainly not Sybil, that I'm worried about," he smiled.

"Ah. Granny? Matthew, darling, she's been our staunchest champion from the moment she heard!"

"I know you've told me that, but... Really, Mary, give me the choice of facing cousin Violet or a German soldier and I'll tell you which I'd feel more sure of!"

Mary laughed, and kissed him – to comfort him, or for her own pleasure; the reason didn't matter.

When they did reach the Abbey, stepping into its welcoming warmth as the darkness fell, Matthew's fears were very nearly proved correct.

"And so returns Mary's secret husband!" were the first words that greeted him from Violet's lips. His cheeks coloured.

"It couldn't have stayed a very well-kept secret, I think," he retorted with humour (it seemed all he could do).

"No, quite so, Matthew," Violet said with pursed lips and a pointed look at Mary's severely rounded belly. "Well, good evening."

Matthew smiled nervously, unable to gauge the Dowager Countess' opinion of him from such a curt greeting.

"Matthew!" Sybil's greeting was entirely warmer. "How lovely to see you here safely."

"I'm sorry to have missed you yesterday," Matthew apologised as he returned her welcome.

"We quite understood," Edith joined her sister. Matthew rather hoped they didn't.

Once Matthew and Mary had greeted everyone, Isobel included, they went straight through to dinner. No sooner had they sat down, than Matthew found himself once more uncomfortably the target of Violet's attention.

"Now, Matthew," she said matter-of-factly. Matthew looked up politely, grasping Mary's hand under the table. "I know we've covered it in depth in your absence, but now you are here, I should like to verify your account with Mary's. She was in such a frightful state of bewildered devotion, I'm not sure how confidently we can take her testimony."

"Oh, Granny…" Mary sighed.

"Yes?" Matthew wondered anxiously precisely what she was about to bombard him with. He was uncomfortably aware of the eyes of everyone else upon him.

"All I want to know," she sniffed, as though her demands were perfectly reasonable, "is _precisely_ whose incredible notion it was to suggest being so impulsively married." Matthew's eyebrows rose. "You needn't spout the same old nonsense Mary always does by saying it was what you both wanted; I simply want to know whose was the suggestion."

"I must own to it having been mine," he answered carefully, though without hesitation, unsure of which answer she expected or hoped for.

Violet seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Very good." To Mathew's surprise, Violet suddenly settled back in her chair, looking immensely satisfied. "I always believed you to be a sensible man, and I'm glad you have proved me right. Really, why anyone thought it a foolish move is beyond me – they must only be a fool themselves. Imagine, had you not! And with you now at war – then where would we be!"

"Thank you for that, Mama," Robert looked despairingly at his mother, and apologetically at Matthew, who looked somewhat bemused but smiled regardless.

Really, he was terribly uncomfortable. It felt so very _odd_... Sitting here with them all at dinner, just as he'd used to, just as they had no doubt continued to do. But the last time he had sat at this table he had not been a soldier, nor a husband, nor about to become a father. Everything seemed so much the same, and yet so wholly altered. When he thought of where he'd dined only two days earlier, the brutal reality of his life at war, he wondered how on earth he could fit back into this existence. Matthew the soldier certainly could not – he had to alter himself, his rules, his perceptions, and it was... so very strange. With Mary the night before, it had been alright – the two of them, with nothing hidden, she knew it all (well, as much as he could say) anyway. But here, now, he felt as though he were only an actor in some strange scene that was not quite what his life should be.

As if she could read his thoughts, Sybil's voice suddenly cut through the chatter.

"I suppose all this must seem so insignificant to you now, Matthew. Place settings, and salad forks, and things. I can't imagine!"

He looked up sharply, fingers tightening around his silver cutlery.

"I... It's – certainly not what I'm used to, now, and... In some respects, I suppose, but –" He stammered a little, trying his best not to sound as though he were belittling anything of his hosts. "I certainly wouldn't class it all as insignificant, though. Certainly not all of it," he said, with a sideways look at Mary as he reached out and squeezed her hand with a gentle smile.

"Oh, of course," Sybil looked rather ashamed of herself for such a generalisation of the matter.

Picking up on Matthew's meaning, Cora smiled indulgently at them for a moment, before a little frown crossed her face.

"It _is_ such a shame you won't be here when the child arrives, Matthew... I don't suppose there's any way at all?"

"I'm afraid not," Matthew pressed his lips into a rueful smile. "Unless Baby makes a very unexpectedly early appearance," (though Mary looked quite horrified at that thought) "there's no chance of me having leave again so soon. In fact I'll be lucky if I'm off again before Christmas."

"Well, you're here now, at least," Mary said quietly beside him. Whatever else, she was grateful for that.

"What a miserable thought," Edith mused quietly. Matthew agreed entirely, and rather wished that she hadn't voiced it. How could he really enjoy his leave when everyone kept reminding him how rottenly brief it was?

"Oh, good," Violet muttered sharply. "Let's dwell on that."

Heavy silence seemed to settle over the table. To change the thread of conversation would seem so transparent; well, they didn't want to trivialise it, yet at the same time Matthew's unease was slowly becoming palpable. That everyone seemed a little unsure of quite what was appropriate to talk to him about did not help matters.

Robert thought he'd shift things a little. Of all of them, he understood Matthew's position, and the delicacy of his attitudes. Things might well seem trivial, but in a way, that was precisely what one needed to cling to for comfort – and yet not so obviously as to engender pity. Best to disguise things in a familiar context, he thought.

"You know one of our footmen, William, is pretty keen to sign up," he said.

"Oh?" It seemed to work, Matthew's interest piqued. He lowered his fork, and looked up attentively.

"Mm," Edith sounded vaguely dismissive. "His father absolutely forbids it. He couldn't bear the thought of him being wounded, you see, and so won't let him go at all."

"Really," Mary shook her head. "How any grown man can be _forbidden_ to do something is beyond me. It's too ludicrous for words!"

"He respects his father's wishes against his own, and that is admirable," was Isobel's contribution; "Though I agree with you in principle. If every parent's concern kept their son from the front, I fear our army would be quite severely depleted." Her glance at Matthew as she spoke was a strange mix of despair and pride.

"Oh dear, I simply cannot imagine William as a soldier," Cora fretted, as though she might be the man's mother herself. "Matthew, how do you think he'd cope with it? Would he do alright?"

Matthew chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering.

"I honestly couldn't say," he eventually said with a shrug, wishing that everyone wasn't now looking to him like some sort of oracle of war. Really, their guess was as good as his! "It's not the sort of thing one can predict. Some folks you'd imagine to make a soldier then bail at the first whiff of a scrap. Others step up to the mark admirably, even the least likely of men. It's so –" He faltered, and eventually muttered at his plate with a shake of his head, "There's no sense to any of it."

His words sobered the atmosphere once more, and silence settled again. Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that he was responsible – well, but what else did they expect him to say?

"Of course there isn't," Mary said, taking his hand in silent support. Matthew appreciated that far more than any platitudinous justifications of it all.

"Well, so much for it'll all be over by –"

"Excuse me," Matthew interrupted Edith's indulgent whine before she could finish it (he knew exactly what she was going to say, weren't they all so horribly aware of it!), glancing up apologetically for any rudeness in his tone. "Could we please – just not talk about the –" He barely restrained the curse on his lips, "the war any more. I've – left it, for now, and I really would like to have _left_ it. Please, talk about whatever you think might be insignificant."

His words tumbled out in a breathless rush, and he stared somewhere in the middle of the table, before looking up almost desperately. "Forgive me, Cousin Edith – Sybil – what business took you to Ripon, yesterday?"

Looking considerably affronted, Edith sat back in her chair and let Sybil shine, as she so always seemed to do best. Insignificant though the subject might have been, everyone was soon distracted sufficiently by Sybil's engaging enthusiasm.

"Well – if you insist on triviality, Matthew – we were fitting for new gowns, though there seems little enough point in all that now!"

"It's a good job Mary hadn't gone with you," Isobel pointed out. "She'd have missed Matthew herself, otherwise."

"Quite so!" Mary agreed without hesitation. "That would've been a terrible shame." Perhaps only Matthew noticed the marginal deepening, softening, of her voice, or the barely perceptible note of desire in her tone, or the faintest touch of colour upon her cheeks. If that were the case, it was likely for the best.

"Mary couldn't have come with us if she'd wanted to!" added Edith. Though normally one might've expected such a comment to be made out of spite, in this case there was no such reasoning. "Well, she could've, but there'd have been little point in it – by the time the dress were made, she'd only have outgrown it."

Mary sniffed dismissively, prompting an affectionate smile from Matthew.

"I love this child dearly already, but I shall love it even more when it allows me to wear _normal_ dresses again!" she sighed.

The shift in topic back towards the baby made Cora's heart glow. There could be no greater joy for a mother, she considered, than to see her daughter so content.

"It'll be so lovely to have a baby in the house again," she said wistfully. "Matthew, we must show you the nursery before your return to France – I can just picture it now, and –"

"No."

Everyone turned, shocked, to Mary, who'd suddenly turned quite pale, her lips set in a determined line.

"Mary, what on earth –"

"Darling?" Matthew's brow gently creased in concern, and he took her hand.

"I mean – I'm sorry Mama, but," Mary seemed to shake herself out of whatever daze she'd momentarily fallen into, and turned to Matthew. The moment she did, there might as well have been no-one else in the room to her. Everything seemed to fade out beyond his face, his eyes, the warm, reassuring touch of his hand.

She blinked, resolute. "I don't – I don't want the baby to be here." In the moment she said it, it crystallised in her mind. How had she ever thought they should be otherwise?

"What do you mean?" Matthew prompted her softly.

"I want to stay at Crawley House. I really don't know why I never thought of it before! But – of course that's where our child should be brought up. That should be its home."

As Matthew held her hands, and looked at her, twisted round in his seat to face her, a look of deep, incomprehensible love flitted over his expression. He licked his lips and lowered his head a little, looking seriously at her.

"Our home," he whispered.

Mary nodded, smiled breathlessly, and turned back to her mother who was staring at her, open-mouthed in surprised at such an unguarded display (as, so it happened, were the rest of the family). Any thought of dessert was quite forgotten.

"Mary, this – I think you should think very carefully," Cora cautioned.

"I know the nursery is all set up." Now the idea was in her head, Mary would not be swayed. "But – so long as Cousin Isobel doesn't object, of course – there could easily be room found in Crawley House. You might think it rash, but – well. I've been rash before, and I shall be again I'm sure, but I won't apologise for it."

It suddenly occurred to Mary that she must have been living in a dream for the past eight months. Matthew was her husband, and Crawley House was their home – the thought of living with their child anywhere other than that seemed utterly ludicrous, especially now that she'd been there together with Matthew. It was so blindingly clear to her.

"Well…" Cora still seemed unsure, unable to hide the disappointment in her tone.

"I'd have no objection, my dear, of course." In fact, Isobel looked positively overjoyed at the prospect.

"Thank you," Mary said sincerely.

"I suppose," Robert heaved through a sigh, "that if you are determined – the child will be as well off there, with Isobel to oversee you, as we could afford here." He saw that his daughter was not to be moved, and recognised that there was little use in opposing her, no matter his personal feelings (or his wife's).

"Oh, what a happy thought for the child," Violet chortled humourlessly.

"That's settled, then!" Mary sat back, feeling as though a great weight had lifted from her shoulders, though she'd not even been aware of its presence until this very moment. Her hand was still in Matthew's, and she smiled happily at him. Details could be worked out in due time; they had a month, still. Her mind was settled, and that was enough for now.

Robert was exhausted, and said so. The meal had been utterly draining; Matthew's return had understandably caused a stir of excitement that, while not in the slightest unwelcome, had made for more profound than usual conversation.

The ladies made to retire. Matthew stood, and helped Mary to her feet, allowing his hand to linger on her waist just a fraction longer than strictly necessary, and noticing the way her fingers slid warmly against his as their hands parted.

When they'd left, he settled down into his seat again, with a weary smile to Robert, who took no time in pouring them both a brandy.

It was strange, how it didn't feel like any time at all had passed since they had last sat together like this; though it had been under such very, very different circumstances.

"Well now, dear fellow," Robert eased back into his chair more comfortably, resting his arm on the table. "Be honest, have you missed all that?" He grinned good-naturedly.

Matthew laughed. "I found it a little overwhelming, I'll admit. Quite a contrast from my dining habits in France."

"I'm sure."

Comfortable silence settled for a moment, as both men shared a quiet acknowledgment that can only be shared between two men who know what it is to have been at war, and come home. Matthew stared into his glass, swirling the amber liquid in thought.

"I do hope," he said finally, carefully, "that you're not terribly put out by Mary's idea for the baby." He looked up at Robert seriously. "I'm so very grateful for everything you've done for them, and I know that a great deal of effort has been put into preparing the nursery here. She's mentioned nothing of such a notion before, our plan was always that she'd stay here while I was away, but – well, it seemed once she had the idea she was quite set."

Robert considered this, and shrugged. "Cora will be disappointed," he admitted. "But she will get over it soon enough. And no, I don't think you ungrateful at all, Matthew. It's very natural to want to raise the child in what should be its family home; I certainly won't begrudge you both that."

"I appreciate that, thank you." Matthew was all sincerity. "It would certainly mean a great deal to me, now that I think of it. Well, and to Mary. To us both."

He couldn't quite express (and certainly not to Robert) how incredibly touched he was that Mary was now so suddenly adamant that she and their child should live in Crawley House. It was silly, really – as they kept saying, it would be, _should_ be, their home – only they had never lived there together, until now, and so somehow the thought had passed them by. The thought of Mary and their baby in their home, now, waiting for his return, was such a beautifully _happy_ thought.

Just by looking at him, the way his countenance altered and warmed, Robert knew it.

"I quite understand," he said warmly. "And they shall be well sheltered under the wing of your mother, I've no doubt!"

Matthew laughed. "Yes, I'd have no need to worry at all."

Robert glanced at his son-in-law, holding him with a sincere gaze. "You do know, my dear boy, how very pleased I am for you? Aside from the beastly war, of course, but – I know I reacted in anger, but I know you understand why, and I hope you also understand that I do not begrudge you it now. Not in the very least."

"I know," Matthew smiled gratefully. "And I do so value your good will; I know it wasn't easy to give, under the circumstances."

The circumstances. His marriage to Mary. To be among their family, now – openly, as her husband – filled him with the strangest sense of pride. In so many ways, he couldn't possibly be happier – if only it were not for the pressing shadow of war, ever at his back, haunting him and calling him back. If only he could just stay, here, in this perfect bliss with his family.

Though… if he were entirely honest with himself, he knew that he couldn't deny his sense of duty. If given the chance to stay, he'd probably always still go back to the front. How could he not, when so many were giving their lives each day – how would it be his place, to shirk it and remain in this perfect happiness when such things were going on in the world?

It disturbed him to admit, and he would never do so to Mary; though he wondered if perhaps she knew it regardless. She understood him, more perfectly sometimes than he thought he understood himself.

* * *

><p>Still, when the time came for him to leave her and return to his duty, he felt the bitterness of departure just as keenly.<p>

Oh, it was hard to leave her… To leave _them_. The precious time had been so short, so abominably short. This time, when he left, he felt far more her husband, in a far more meaningful way, than he had done the time before. This time, they had lived together, dined together, slept together, _been_ together as husband and wife in their own house, and it had been the most treasured week of his life.

As he stood now, with her in his arms on the bustling platform of Downton's little station, the thought of leaving seemed simply impossible. He'd done it once… Left her, survived, came back. He could do it again. He _must_ do it again.

It seemed superfluous to say that he loved her.

And yet, he did anyway, murmured softly into her ear as he held her closely.

"I know," she whispered, and leaned back to cup a gloved hand tenderly on his cheek. "We shall be here when you come back, darling. And in the meantime, we shall be thinking of you. Always."

Matthew pressed a lingering, bittersweet kiss to her lips.

"Stay safe," he entreated her.

"I should say the same to you!" Mary smiled fondly.

"No need." Between them, he held out the little toy dog she had sent him in the Christmas post the year before. Mary's heart swelled to see it.

"Well. Just so long as he comes back equally spotless next time!" she exclaimed with enormous affection.

Steam billowed around them, and a whistle blew down the platform. Matthew looked around, and realised he could not put it off any longer.

"You have my word," he promised. His confidence was a front; they both knew the truth of it, yet it seemed pointless at this moment to acknowledge any fear. They could not. Better to trust, believe, hope – to part with that, and a smile.

"Farewell, dearest," Mary smiled bravely, squeezed his hand, and stole one final, sweet kiss from him.

"Goodbye, my darling." He stepped away before he could think to do otherwise, and boarded the train. Mary only had to wait a moment, her eyes casting expectantly over the carriage, for him to appear at a window. She stepped forward, and grasped his outstretched hand.

They didn't say any more; there was nothing left to say. Mary blinked back tears as the train inevitably drew away, taking him from her once more… Leaving her with just the memory of him; her last, final sight of him, raising his hat in parting as the smoke and the steam swallowed him up and she was left once more on her own.

Well, this time not quite on her own, she thought as she rubbed her hand comfortingly over her belly.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you for reading! Sorry that was a long one. __I'm sorry Matthew's gone again! But he will certainly be featuring in the next chapter. Most definitely. It's always lovely to hear what you thought, reviews etc would be wonderful and are very much appreciated! Thank you!_


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _Back again with more happily married M/M antics! Sort of..._

_For this chapter, I feel I need to explain something of my usual writing method, which I departed from somewhat here. Now, I have enormous admiration for people who include themes and motifs and symmetry and clever things like that into fics, because really, I don't. My method tends to be sit, write, see what comes out. I normally have an idea of how I want a chapter to go, like scenes, but for the most part I just sort of let it happen. For this chapter, though, I got an idea, and I decided to try to be 'clever' and actually 'do' something. My goodness, it made it more complicated! But anyway, I tried. I hope it's worked, and I hope you'll appreciate it! _

_Thank you so much for all your encouragement for this fic, and a special thank you to EOlivet for her enormous help talking baby names and word choices! :D_

_Enjoy...!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter Fourteen<span>**

It was finally happening.

Mary had been terrified at first. Hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd been reading over Matthew's last letter, quietly by the windowsill, taking the weight off her feet for a few minutes. Everything had been aching so much! In the bedroom, she'd eased her feet up onto the chaise and sighed deeply with the sweet relief from pressure.

In all honesty, she should have been expecting it. She had been, really, she'd known – known it must come soon. Clarkson and Isobel had both warned her well enough, and she _knew_… but had been unwilling to accept it. She supposed she was scared. The prospect of it had been looming so large, for so long, that she'd sort of fallen into a state of blissful denial… Almost convincing herself that she could just go on as she was; it might never happen after all.

But then it did.

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest as the clenching pain washed over her, and she felt… Oh, Lord. For a few moments she was motionless, unable to rouse any movement, trembling fiercely where she sat until she accepted that she must _do_ something, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Without being quite sure how she mustered the strength, she was up, ringing the bell, running (oh, she should not run!) out into the hall to call for whoever might be nearby.

Isobel heard, and appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"Mary?" she called up.

"Isobel, I –" Mary gripped the banister, her other hand falling instinctively to her belly. Her voice was breathless, panicky. "I think, it's time – the baby!"

Thank goodness Isobel was there. Within minutes Mary found herself bundled into bed – oh, they tried to put her in the guest room, saying it would be easier afterwards if she wanted to retire to her own bedroom but no – Matthew wasn't here, so at the very least she could be where she felt closest to him. Clarkson arrived, another nurse arrived, fresh sheets and towels and all sorts of terrifying things Mary didn't want to think about appeared, and then another wave of discomfort hit her, but everyone seemed very calm amongst it all.

Matthew. She needed Matthew – needed the calm reassurance of his hand, his warmth, his presence. She squeezed her eyes shut to the bustle around her and wished, wished so desperately that he was here, until she could almost feel her fingers closing around his hand, could almost smell his scent on the air, could almost taste him on her lips… Oh, why wasn't he here!

* * *

><p>It was finally happening.<p>

Matthew had been, frankly, terrified at first – he didn't think that reaction would ever go away when the news came, no matter how long he was out here. Hadn't wanted to believe it. He'd been reading over Mary's last letter, quietly at his little table in the dugout, her photograph propped up just in front of him. It was so good to get off his feet for a moment; it had been a long duty and everything ached so much! Persistent, driving rain over the last few days had turned the trench into a sodden mud-pit, a veritable death trap in itself. He'd pulled his encrusted helmet and jacket off and sank into the chair, sighing deeply with the sweet release from pressure. It was far too much effort to remove his caked, sodden boots.

In all honesty, he should have been expecting it. He had been, really, he'd known – known it must come soon. The Major had warned them well enough, word had been trickling down the line for days now that the Germans were about to move and he _knew_… but had been unwilling to accept it. He supposed he was scared. The prospect of some action had been looming so large, for so long, that he'd sort of fallen into a state of blissful denial… Almost convincing himself that things could just go on as they were; this stalemate could just continue, it might never happen after all.

But then it did.

His heart seemed to stop in his chest as the message was brought in, he had to read the telegram three times to make sure and he felt… Oh, Lord. For a few moments he remained motionless, unable to rouse any movement, trembling fiercely where he sat until he accepted that he must _do_ something, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Without being quite sure how he mustered the strength, he was up, shouting orders to send a message back down the wire, running (oh, he should not run in this mud!) out into the trench to call for whoever might be nearby to rouse the idle, exhausted men to action.

The company's Captain heard, and appeared at the corner of the jagged trench line.

"What is it, Crawley?" he called down.

"Captain Jackson, I –" Matthew gripped the rotting planking as the earth shook, his other hand falling instinctively to his gun holster. His voice was breathless, panicky. "News from the intelligence office at last, I think, it's time, Sir – they're making a move!"

A sharp nod. As word spread, the line erupted into a flurry of activity. Guns were readied and men rushed about, getting to their posts through the knee-deep mud, orders were shouted and passed on and carried out as everything made ready. Within minutes Matthew's batman had strapped him into all those extra little bits of kit needed for battle – including that most precious of things, just as vital to Matthew as his pistol and gas mask, which was Mary's little dog charm. With it safely stowed in his pocket, everything at once seemed somehow much calmer amidst the rush. He could face it.

Mary. He needed Mary – needed the calm reassurance of her hand, her warmth, her presence. He squeezed his eyes shut to the bustle around him, breathed deeply and wished, wished so desperately that he was with her, until he could almost feel her fingers closing around his hand, could almost smell her perfume on the air, could almost taste her on his lips… Oh, why must he be here, why couldn't be there, with her!

* * *

><p>Really, Mary was quite surprised at how calm she was. At how calm everything was. After the first mad rush, things had settled into a quiet, calm sort of expectancy. And now she was waiting. Just… waiting. Everything was in place, so she was informed, and however frustrating it might be, there was nothing else now <em>to<em> do than just wait.

The pain came in sporadic waves. Mary gasped softly, gritted her teeth, clenched her hand on the sheets… Waited for it to pass. Waited for the next one to come.

She felt as though she had been on this precipice for hours, now, and she wanted to be over it. Over and through and to the other side, and the precious reward of life that would bring. They kept telling her it would be soon, it couldn't be long now… It was unbearable, agonising.

Looking down at herself, her fingers clutched idly, distractedly at her nightgown.

"Come on, Baby… Hurry up, and let's get this over with," she murmured, agitation hovering on her tone.

As if that could make it come any quicker.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she blinked up at the bed canopy. Concentrating on each breath, she knew that was all she could keep doing… In, and out… In, and out, again and again, the regular pattern of it soothing and calming her. She could do this… She'd been through it all in her head; she knew the plan, the drill… Isobel had been over it and over it, and she knew it all very well in theory but now it was _happening_, and – another breath in, another breath out.

Her gaze shifted to the window, out, and up. Where was Matthew, what was he doing? She wondered if he was thinking of her. Though he'd said he always would be, he surely couldn't mean every moment, but… it would be so very nice if he was, at this moment, whatever his situation.

* * *

><p>Standing in the trench with one foot on the firestep, Matthew was quite surprised at how calm he was. At how calm everything was. After the first mad rush when the orders came, things had settled into a quiet, calm sort of expectancy. And now he was (they all were) waiting. Just… waiting. Everything was in place, so he was informed, and however frustrating it might be, there was nothing else now <em>to<em> do than just wait.

That familiar fear came in sporadic waves. Matthew gasped softly, gritted his teeth, clenched his fingers around the cold reassurance of his pistol… Waited for it to pass. Waited for the next one to come. Just as every man there was doing.

He felt as though he had been on this precipice for hours, now, and he wanted to be over it. Over and through and to the other side, preferably still alive. They kept saying it would be soon, it couldn't be long now… It was unbearable, agonising.

Looking down at the sturdy watch in his hand, he distractedly watched the seconds tick by, waiting, waiting... At least the shells had stopped now, that meant it couldn't be long. Not long at all, now.

"Come on, you bastards… Hurry up, and let's get this over with," he muttered under his breath, agitation hovering on his tone.

As if that could make it come any quicker.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, he blinked up at the overcast sky above him. Concentrating on each breath, he knew that was all he could keep doing… In, and out… Watching his breath swirl and cool into visible little clouds in the cold air. In, and out, again and again, the regular pattern of it soothing and calming him. He could do this… He'd been through it all in his head; he knew the plan, the drill… Hold them back, that was all they needed to do. Kill enough of them to stop the advance, take some alive if they could. Hold the line. Major Anderson had been over it and over it, and he knew it all very well in theory but now it was _happening_, and – another breath in… another breath out.

His gaze shifted to the horizon, out, and up. Where precisely was Mary, at this moment, what was she doing? He wondered if she was thinking of him. He liked to think (no, _needed_ to think) that she was. Though she'd said she always would be, she surely couldn't mean every moment, but… it would be so very comforting if she was, at this moment, whatever her situation.

With one final, reassuring squeeze of the little dog in his pocket, he looked down again at the watch. The seconds ticked by, just a few more… Deafening silence seemed to cling to the air, along with the stench of fear and anticipation. He couldn't think of that.

_Three__… __Two__… __One__… __Now_. Clenching the whistle between his teeth he gave a long, sharp blast, and threw himself over the top with a roar that was lost in the breaking cacophony around him.

* * *

><p>Another scream tore from between Mary's clenched teeth, and her hands gripped fiercely at the sweat-drenched linen of the sheets. Everything seemed like chaos, blood and things she didn't want to think of, all clamouring in some giant, devastating mess around her.<p>

Beside her, Isobel's attempts at reassurance were cutting through the fog of her awareness, awareness that was just blinding, searing pain.

"Keep breathing, Mary, that's it – you're getting there, it can't go on much longer now –"

"Just push through, Lady Mary," Clarkson barked at her. Mary would've risen and slapped him if she were capable of it. "You're doing a fine job, we're nearly there."

Mary gasped sharply. "I hope," she bit out, "for your sake, that you're right." She trembled with pain, and all of it at this moment was focussed into hatred at the arrogant man at the foot of her bed, whom she decided to blame entirely for _this_.

A moment's respite, a moment's calm, as that wave of pain subsided. She heaved in ragged breaths, her entire body tensed in readiness for the next.

_Matthew_… Oh, what she wouldn't give for him to be here, for it to be his hand she was clutching in a bruising grip rather than his poor, dear mother's. Her eyes squeezed shut and she pictured him; then she gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath as once more her own piercing scream drowned out any other thought.

* * *

><p>Gunshots cracked through the damp air, the rapid rattle of machine guns, the pounding of heavy footfalls as men swarmed over the broken landscape toward the advancing enemy. The cacophony of sound was punctuated by screams and thuds and sickening cracks as men fell to the ground.<p>

Another yell of adrenaline tore from between Matthew's clenched teeth, and his hand gripped fiercely, desperately on his pistol. His free arm was flung up in front of his eyes as he ran, carried on running, his heart thudding in time with the pounding of his boots as he peered through the smoke at his target and fired another shot. A grim look of satisfaction flitted over his face as one more dropped to the ground. Everything was chaos, devastation, blood and things he didn't want to think of, all clamouring in some giant mess around him. It was too much to concentrate on and yet that was all he could do, focus, _focus_ on another step, another target, another shot.

Somewhere beside him, Captain Jackson's vain attempts at reassurance were cutting through the fog of his awareness, awareness that was just blinding fear, adrenaline pushing through exhaustion, deafening shouts and shots…

"Keep going, boys, that's it – you're getting there, it can't go on much longer now –"

"Just push through, lads!" Another officer dimly barked. Matthew almost laughed. If only it were that simple! Matthew would've sought him out and punched him if only the small matter of advancing Germans were not so pressing. "You're doing a fine job, we're nearly there!"

Matthew gasped sharply as a bullet whistled past his ear, nicking the edge of it under the lip of his helmet. Panting with shock he dived into a shell-hole, landing on his front with a loud thud that knocked the breath out of him. He was motionless, scared, trying desperately not to think about how if that bullet had been even an inch to the right...

"I hope," he bit out under his breath, "for your sake, that you're right." He lay trembling with fear, pain, exhaustion, and all of it at this moment was focussed into hatred at the bastard troops in their spiked helmets ahead of him, whom he decided to blame entirely for _this_.

A moment's respite, a moment's calm, as that wave of fear subsided. He had to go on, there was nothing else for it. _Just __push __on, __push __through__… _If he believed that the outcome of this somehow depended on him, that he were not just a miniscule, insignificant pawn in these war games, he could go on… He heaved in ragged breaths, his entire body rigid and tensed as he pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, in readiness for the next wave of attack.

_Mary_… Oh, what he wouldn't give to be with her, for it to be her hand he was clutching in a desperate grip rather than the cold, hard metal of his pistol. His eyes squeezed shut and he pictured her; then he gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath as once more his own deafening roar drowned out any other thought and he scrambled back out and over into the melee.

* * *

><p>Thank God the end was in sight. Mary leaned forwards, feeling cold sweat pool down her back, and concentrated every ounce of strength into following Clarkson's steady instructions.<p>

So close, she was so close, with one final burst of effort and pain, her cry ringing loud in the stillness of the room… she was there.

As Mary slumped weakly back against the pillows, watching as a nurse swept the wonderfully screaming little bundle that must be _her__ baby_ away, her eyes closed in an exhausted smile. Isobel rubbed her shoulder soothingly as she recovered. It was over, thank God it was over and she'd made it through, though she hardly knew how…

Eventually, her eyes blinked wearily open. In the corner of the bedroom she could see Isobel and Clarkson in conversation, but at her gentle cough they turned. Clarkson watched as Isobel approached her, a tenderly wrapped bundle in her arms.

"I think you shall want to see this, Mary dear," she said softly. From the doorway, Clarkson caught her eye, nodded his approval, and left them.

Mary pushed herself up a little straighter, and gasped with fondness as Isobel placed the tiny child so gently into her arms.

"Oh…"

All the pain, all the exhaustion, the long hours of it, was instantly forgotten as Mary stared down at her baby, her lips swiftly curling into an irrepressible smile of joy. Lifting a hand to wipe away an errant tear, she blinked up at Isobel.

"I – didn't hear if anyone said, what –"

"A little girl," Isobel smiled.

"Oh," was all Mary could muster, and she gazed down again at… her daughter. Not even the notion to be disappointed with that occurred to her. It was the very least of her concerns.

When Isobel slipped out a moment later, to tell the waiting family downstairs the news, Mary didn't even notice.

She had a daughter. She and Matthew had a daughter. Mary felt as though her heart would burst with love. Oh, she was perfect… Tentatively, Mary reached out one finger and tickled at the tiny babe's chest, laughing delightedly when a tiny, tiny hand grasped at her. She was dimly aware of tears tracing a path down her cheeks, and she clutched her perfect little girl tenderly as she wept. She wept with happiness, delight, love, and sorrow, that her darling Matthew was not with her to experience this wonder.

* * *

><p>Thank God the end was in sight; Matthew could see the line ahead of him now, the welcome sight of the rotten trench that was his safety. He leaned forwards as he ran; feeling the hard reassurance of his boots pounding the earth, feeling cold sweat pool down his back, and concentrated every ounce of strength into following his orders. The task was done, they'd driven them back, now he just had to get back in one piece damn it…<p>

So close, he was so close, with one final burst of effort and pain as shots rang out around mingling with his own shouts in the chaos of retreating men… he was there.

Vaulting with practised ease over the parapet and into the trench, Matthew slumped weakly back in relief against its rotting side. Watching as the wounded were swept away by stretcher-bearers, trying desperately to block out the sound of their agonised screams, his eyes closed for a moment in an exhausted prayer of thanks, for one more successful run. Major Anderson (he'd made it back, too, then) clapped him on the shoulder with a companionable nod as he passed down the line. It was over, thank God it was over and he'd made it through, though he hardly knew how…

One moment's more rest, then his eyes blinked wearily open. He pushed himself more properly to his feet, and staggered back down the line to his dugout, the going painfully slow in the chaotic aftermath of battle. At last he reached his haven, where he found his batman Davis already back and sitting at the little desk where the telephone was.

"Back in one piece Sir?" he smiled.

"Just about, thanks," Matthew grinned ruefully, touching a hand gingerly to his ear which was still bleeding profusely. "I'll get this seen to once the others have been dealt with."

"Right. I – think you shall want to see this, it just came down the wire for you."

"Oh?" Matthew frowned as Davis held out the scrap of paper to him, and scanned it quickly.

"Congratulations, Sir," Davis smiled softly as he saw realisation dawn on Matthew's face.

His expression slackened and he gripped the paper tightly, trying to stop his hands shaking as he stared at it, read it again, the words seeming to blur into each other even as they leapt from the discoloured strip.

_Lt. M. Crawley, Duke of Manc's Own. Thrilled to report Miss Mabel Violet Crawley born at 9am this morning. Baby in good health, and Mary, promises to write soon. Mrs I. Crawley._

"Thank you," he breathed, and staggered outside, craving air. His chest felt tight, unbearably tight, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think…

God, he was a father. They had a daughter. Oh, _God._

Blankly, Matthew looked around him. _He__ was __a __father_. All around him was devastation. Death. Blood. Destruction. He choked back a sob, as the joy in his heart battled against his pride in Mary, oh his darling Mary, and his sorrow that he was here, in this, and that such things existed in the world when back in England, in his house, his home… his darling wife had just brought their child into the world.

He stared at the paper again. Life, such a precious little life. _Bloody__ hell_, he had nearly died out there today, just as his daughter had been taking her first breath. So many _had_.

It had begun to rain again. Matthew turned his face up to it, as he sank back against the wall of the trench. He was shaking, from cold, exhaustion, disbelief… His eyes closed and he felt the cold, persistent drizzle stream down his face, through the dirt and the blood, mingling with tears that he wasn't aware were falling.

As the rain seemed to cleanse him, he felt an overwhelming sense of love blossom in his chest and spread, slowly smothering his perception of everything else, healing him.

Mary, his darling, darling Mary, had given him a daughter. In that moment his love for her swelled greater than it ever had. And amidst all this, everything here, all that was rotten and broken and horrific, back at _home_ he had a daughter. He put the precious slip of paper into his pocket, where his fingers closed around Mary's charm.

And he felt a light – of hope, of love – spring in his chest.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I'd been looking forward to this chapter for AGES. Feedback of course is always enormously appreciated, but I'd particularly appreciate it in this instance because I was so unsure of the 'mirroring' scenes concept, whether it would actually work - so I'd absolutely love to know what you thought! Trying to achieve something distinct was quite an interesting, and difficult, experience for me! So any comments will be enormously appreciated. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed it, and thank you!_


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: _Happy Monday!_

_As promised, M/M/Mabel fluff._ _Yay!_

_I'd like to say an enormous, enormous thank you for every single review, alert and favourite on this story, every comment on here or LJ or Tumblr or Twitter or wherever._ _I really have been overwhelmed, thank you._

_As ever, enormous thanks to EOlivet_ _for her endless encouragement!_

_Enjoy! :)_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Fifteen<span>**

"It's just here," Isobel almost whispered. Then she laid a reassuring hand on Cora's arm, pressed her lips into a warm smile and left her.

"Thank you," Cora smiled back.

She looked around her, and took a breath. She'd only been upstairs in Crawley House once, to see the newly decorated nursery where Matthew's study had been before the war. Now, she lightly curled and uncurled her fingers on the skirt of her dress, and pushed open her daughter's bedroom door.

The sight before her took her breath away. Mary sat propped against a mountain of soft pillows, surrounded by warm, fresh blankets. Her head was bowed, oblivious to all else in the world as she gazed at the tiny bundle cradled gently in her arms, to which she softly murmured. Maternal pride swelled fiercely in Cora's chest as she watched her daughter with her own child, and she quickly wiped away a tear before crossing the room.

"Oh my darling," she said softly as a smile blossomed over her face.

Her voice, and the dip of the bed as she sat on its edge, startled Mary to her presence and her wide brown eyes flicked up to her mother.

"Oh! Mama." She smiled, both joy and sorrow playing over it in hopeless conflict. "Look at how perfect she is," she murmured, before her eyes fell once more to her warm, powdered, darling little baby.

As if somehow she knew, the baby's eyes blinked open at that moment and gazed up to see two adoring smiles.

No words issued from the lips graced by those adoring smiles. They could not. They were too enchanted by the clear, sparkling blue gazing back up at them.

Mary was enthralled. She knew, of course, had always known how children bore resemblance to their parents. She'd spent many hours, in fact, wondering whether she would see more of herself or of Matthew in their child. But to be faced with the startling reality of it, to see those bright blue eyes, so dearly familiar, staring up at her had overwhelmed her completely.

Glancing up, Cora saw how Mary's cheeks glistened with fallen tears.

"Isobel has telephoned the war office, to send a message through to Matthew," she said quietly as she touched Mary in gentle reassurance.

Mary sniffed, and nodded. "Good." Her lips parted again as if to say more, but it took several moments and several more breaths before she was able to. "I miss him," she eventually breathed out in a rush before her tears started to fall afresh.

"Of course you do, my darling," Cora clucked as she rubbed her daughter's arm comfortingly. It was such an awful shame. Thinking back, Cora couldn't imagine how she would've managed the births of her girls without knowing Robert was only the other side of the door – even for Mary, that first time, before Cora had even been sure that he loved her at all. She had felt a different sort of alone, then, but at least her baby's father had been _there_!

After a few moments shared in wordless solidarity, her eyes fell from her daughter to… her grand-daughter. What a wondrous thought! "She is beautiful," she smiled with enormous fondness.

Mary grinned back at her in thanks, love shining from her expression. She _was_ beautiful. She was their daughter. Of course she was beautiful. She was the most beautiful creature Mary had ever seen.

But then, her expression changed, sobered, as she continued to stroke distractedly at the wondrous softness of her baby's cheek.

"Is Papa very disappointed it isn't a boy?"

Her brow had creased into a gentle frown, her hesitant voice barely above a murmur.

"Of course not!" Cora hissed defensively. Her reaction was too sharp, and caused Mary to look up with a cynical light in her eyes. "Well," the sureness of her gaze faltered, "he would only wish it might have been for the reassurance a son would afford. But my darling, that makes not the slightest jot of difference to how much he shall love the child, I can assure you of that." Cora knew it only too well, for it mirrored her husband's reaction to each of his own daughters (though a little more pronounced each time). A muttered curse under his breath before he realised what he'd said, followed by doting affection because, whatever the ideal might have been, he fully appreciated the gift of a child.

Mary looked a little unsure, though she tried to smile, and she looked again at her baby girl with that storm of sorrow and adoration on her face. Cora's hand on her arm gave a gentle squeeze. "In any case, you've not even been married a year, yet!" she murmured in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. "You have plenty of time ahead of –"

"We don't!" Mary cried suddenly. She clutched a little at the blankets around her child as the sorrow began to bubble stronger. "We might have, we _should_ have – if Matthew were not away fighting. If there were not the chance every day that he may be killed and –" Her words were lost in a quiet, shuddering sob.

"Darling!" Cora shifted closer to her daughter and began to rub her back in wide, soothing circles as her heart ached for them. There was nothing she could say, no comfort she could offer, for of course Mary was right. "We mustn't think of that," she finally whispered, though she knew the sentiment bore little effect.

Mary hugged her baby closer as she cried. _Their_ baby. Though it was unbearable to think of, she forced herself to remember that now, even if the very worst should happen, she would only need to look into the darling blue eyes of their daughter and Matthew would be close to her again. If the worst should… No. She refused to contemplate it. He _would_ come back, he must, he would meet his daughter and love her and they _would_ have all the time in the world.

After a long while, she took a deep breath and settled back against the pillows. As the baby wriggled gently against her, with a soft little gurgle, Mary suddenly realised how much of a mess she felt, and that she had not the slightest idea what to do.

Looking slightly desperately at her mother, she licked her dry lips and tried to settle her voice.

"Would you – like to hold her a moment?"

Cora instantly recognised the shadow of that familiar fear in Mary's eyes. She remembered it well, even all these years later.

"I'd love to, my darling," she beamed and gently, so gently, took the child from Mary's arms, cooing softly down at her.

In the very same moment Mary felt suddenly bereft, and twisted her hands in her lap to keep her from reaching out again. Smoothing the sheets over her, she breathed deeply again and settled to watch her mother with her daughter. It seemed quite a lovely thought, and once more a smile spread over her face. How changeable she seemed! But this love kept bubbling up, so strongly, quite different to but every bit as powerful as the love that burnt within her for Matthew.

After indulging herself for quite long enough, Cora passed little Mabel back to be rocked and hushed by her mother, and sat with them until Mary's eyes finally closed in peaceful exhaustion.

* * *

><p><em>9th May 1915<em>

_Mary, my darling,_

_It must be an hour now since I saw the telegram from Mother, and only now am I feeling settled enough to sit down for ten minutes and my hand has stopped shaking enough to write. _

_My darling girl. My darling girls. I cannot tell you how I feel, only… So very, very blessed that you are both alright and that I am able to know it. _

_I think I've read those precious words now a hundred times over. Miss Mabel Violet Crawley. Our daughter, darling, our own girl. I am simply inexpressibly happy. _

_I can't write any more just now. I hardly know what to say. You must know, Mary, what a great privilege I feel, and how very grateful I am to you for granting me such a precious gift as a daughter. _

_Write to me as soon as you feel able, but take care of yourself and Baby – well, Mabel! – first. Tell me everything about her, darling. Every last little thing. I would smother you both with kisses if only I were there, so as I'm not you'll just have to imagine them for yourself, and give them all to little Mabel for me. _

_I love you both with every ounce of feeling in my body. Thank you, my darling Mary._

_Your very loving husband,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>4th June 1915<em>

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I'm so sorry you're having a horrid time, my love. Normally summer is a season we so look forward to for the heat! Can nothing be done about the smell it causes? I suppose not. I shall have to send you a vial of perfume to cover it! Better yet, some of Granny's. That would be strong enough to scare the Hun off, I wouldn't doubt!_

_We all at Crawley House are doing very well. Darling, you made me laugh with your astonishment that Mabel very much has your eyes! Of course she must look a little like you, and I like to think a little more so every day. You may well be enchanted by my description of her, love, though I think she is very easy to imagine as quite the little angel when she does not wake you at all hours of the night! She has cast everyone under a spell of her loveliness, perhaps my father most of all – he is quite besotted. I only wish, so desperately, darling, that you could see her. And you needn't worry that she will not know you when you come home, because we sit for a while with your photograph every day, and I tell her all about her Papa and it brings the prettiest smile to her face._

_It may sound cruel to say it but I shall hope that you continue to be bored. My constant thought is for your safety. We love you very much, my darling Matthew, you must always know that._

_With the very fondest love,  
>Mary and Mabel<em>

* * *

><p><em>13th July 1915<em>

_To both my darling girls,_

_It was the loveliest surprise I could imagine to see that photograph when I opened your letter, my love. How utterly, indescribably beautiful you both are. Mary, I look at it now and it makes my very heart ache with happiness. I know that's quite a ridiculous thing to say, but there's no other way I can describe it. When I think of my life only a few years back, to think that I now have such a beautiful wife, and daughter – you are both so precious to me. Surrounded by all that I am here, sometimes it seems like it must be only a wonderful dream that I have you both at home to come back to. And I will, Mary, you must never think for a moment that I won't. _

_Dear, I sound like such a fool. I think I must have been a far more sensible man before I married you, my darling!_

_Now I must say, more seriously, that my unit is to move back to the front line at the end of the week. You know I can't tell you any more, only I reckon things shan't be too quiet for much longer. To be perfectly honest, I know you don't like me to say so but it comes as something of a relief – at least I feel I can be doing something useful there, making some contribution to this damn war, and though it's only wishful thinking it lets me believe that each little bit I do brings it that little bit closer to ending. _

_I've included a note for Mother, will you pass it along? I do hope she isn't smothering you both too much. You must tell me if she does, you know how she can be quite oblivious!_

_I know I hardly need to ask it, but give my darling little girl a kiss from me, and tell her that she is the most perfectly beautiful child I have seen. I couldn't be more happy, Mary, or more proud – well, only happier if I were with you both. _

_My dearest love to both of you,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>12th August 1915<em>

_Darling Matthew,_

_You must think me terribly slack for not having written sooner, but I wanted to wait and write to you today. Do you realise – I'm sure you have, it's precisely the sort of thing you would even if it weren't so important – that it is precisely a year today that we were married? What a perfect, perfect time that was. How long ago it seems, and how things have changed! I'm thankful every day that I found you. You know I would never have blamed you for turning me away, God knows you had every right to, and you did the very opposite. You are so good, my dearest! You will never know how much I love you for that. _

_It feels as though we have been married at the same time for years and only for days. How strange that is. How I miss you! Oh, Matthew, how I miss you. I can bear it usually only because I am so used to it, but thinking now of the time we have shared… You tell me always to write what I think to you, but I think perhaps I'd better not at this moment to save the blushes of your censor… Darling, darling Matthew! _

_And to think that from that we have our dear little girl. Your mother is just about beginning to realise that I can manage perfectly well with her, though I think it took me long enough to realise myself. I know she's barely three months old but I cannot imagine being without her now! Mama and I took her down to the lake last week. There were a host of ducklings out, and the way Mabel laughed and clapped at them was an utter delight. Everything is a joy – my darling, I wish you could be here to share it._

_I'm so very glad you're safe and well. And though you have been away, I have been happier this year as your wife than ever in my life. We both must believe that it has only been the first of many. _

_With my truest love, my dearest Matthew,  
>Your Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>16th September 1915<em>

_My dear Mary,_

_I'm so glad Mabel is quite recovered. Poor little darling, and it must have been rotten for all of you. It's only a small thing but I hope she'll like the little horse figure I've sent along – Durkins carved it, he's very handy at that sort of thing. I reckoned it might prove a distraction if she's unwell again (though I know she has plenty of those already!). Thank you for telling me, though; I know you think that I have enough to be dealing with but I'd much rather know it all. Even what you think is the most insignificant trifle, darling, is the dearest comfort to me. _

_And I need it, on weeks like this and days like today. Almost half the unit didn't make it back after the last raid, bloody idiots in the – no, I can't say that – bloody incompetence. God, now that I think of it I can count on one hand the number of men still here that I came out with. Mary, I – you see, I feel as though I mustn't tell you these things. It's too hard, and I want to – I do want to – but darling, you can't have any idea. It's all such a blasted mess. Thank God that you could never understand it. I think we all out here have been numbed somehow to it; well, it just seems normal – but just sometimes I think of what my life should be, with you, and I realise how terribly, terribly wrong this all is._

_Anyway, darling, don't let me darken your thoughts with all that. I look at the photograph of the two of you, and it cheers me and warms me no matter how rotten and cold things here are. _

_Write again soon my love. Do give Bel an even bigger kiss than usual from me – no, two. Three. Oh, as many as you feel like – I'm so pleased she's better._

_All of my love to you both,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>23rd October 1915<em>

_Dearest Matthew,_

_First let me say that I love you, and then let me scold you for changing your socks so rarely! I have sent you a good deal more. Darling if the conditions are as bad as you say (and I suspect you understate them) then really you must. Your mother and I were quite horrified! You simply cannot spend your days standing in calf-deep mud and stay in the same boots and socks for a week. I will send you new pairs with every letter if needs be, and in the meantime shall pray that the rain will stop!_

_I must tell you that Mabel has earned herself quite a fan in Papa's new dog, Isis. Did you know that Pharaoh was unwell? There was nothing to be done, his age caught up to him – well, Papa was beside himself, so we weren't surprised when Isis appeared some days later. Your mother was quite horrified when Isis made a line for Mabel on her knee, but when she got there she only sat and looked about as enchanted as I could imagine a dog to look! And darling Mabel, gave such a delighted little laugh and patted her nose – oh, Matthew! It was absolutely darling. I've a feeling they'll become rather firm friends, which of course has delighted Papa no end and our mothers not at all._

_Oh, my dear. You might think I'd be used to your being away by now. And I am, darling, but… it only seems to get harder, certainly not any easier. And while our darling daughter is the dearest consolation I could imagine, to look at her only reminds me of you which only makes me long for you all the more! You are the most wonderful father, and she will adore you – she already does, I'm sure of it!_

_Come home soon darling… I know we neither of us can make it happen any sooner. Darling I wish… Oh, it hardly matters! Just come home soon, and safe._

_I love you so very much, Matthew.  
>Your Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>25th November 1915<em>

_My darling Mary,_

_I've some wonderful news for you. You already know my leave is due next month – well, we received a message today that it's to be over Christmas. I should arrive home on Christmas Eve, or the day before, all being well. So we must wait a week or so longer than we thought, but – darling, the thought of being home with you and Mabel for Christmas fills me with joy. _

_To think that we'd hoped it would be over by Christmas last year! It seems almost foolish to hope it might be over by the next. But that's all we can do, I suppose. I don't know how much longer it can go on for, it all seems so damned pointless – every time we gain a foot it is taken back within weeks – I just can't see an end to it. Not as things are. We can but hope._

_But that's not my only news. You couldn't possibly guess whose path I crossed last week, but Evelyn Napier. I remembered him being a good sort of chap, and he seemed just as I had remembered. It was terribly odd, seeing a familiar face so unexpectedly, but a wonderful pleasure. Anyway, he sends his best regards to you and the family; I think he's quite fond of you all._

_I can hardly believe Mabel is beginning to crawl. I know you say only a little. But to think of how she must have grown – I know she must have. It seems incredible to me, darling. For all that you say you long for me to see her, you must know how I have longed for it too. I'm almost scared to, I think. I am scared that you all know her so well, and that she has been growing up for nearly seven months now in the warmth of our family and yet I have not seen her. My own child, and – darling, your letters and tales of her have meant the world to me, but it sits very heavily upon me. If I'm very frank with you, I'm quite terrified of the fact that I will be a stranger to her, Mary. I may be her father, but I have not been her father in any real sort of way, and it is such a hard pain to bear. _

_Now I worry that I've upset you, my dear. Please don't be, I know you've given your all that I shouldn't feel like this. It's only that just sometimes, it strikes me that I can never regain these months that I have missed. Time I have missed with both of you. _

_One day it will be over, and we shall be a proper family. And in the meantime, I will be at home with you for Christmas, and that will be the greatest gift. _

_One month more, my darling. Only four short weeks, and I shall be with you both._

_With my very deepest love,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p>Cold wind from the sea whipped around him as he stepped off the gangplank, back onto the solid, reassuring land of Dover. Matthew pulled his coat closer around him, and his cap a little more down over his head, before finding his train.<p>

As the familiar, comforting chug and whistle of the engine started up, he settled back into his seat and stared out of the window with unfocussed eyes. All he could think of was his family, of Mary, of Mabel, and how in a few short hours (they seemed like mere seconds after the time they'd been apart) he would see them, take them in his arms, kiss them as he had longed to do for so many months… His darling wife, and his darling daughter.

Changing scenery flew past the window, but he saw none of it. He barely noticed the green of the fields, the vibrancy of the few hardy flowers withstanding the cold December air, it didn't register as they passed through towns and cities with buildings and streets intact.

By the time the train reached York, dusk had fallen. He waited for the Ripon train, tapping his feet on the platform, finding the wait unbearable now he was so close.

Ripon, and then the taxi. It was insufferable! When they finally reached Downton, as the taxi turned the little corner and approached the house, Matthew was surprised to find himself shaking.

Stepping out into a light dusting of snow, he thanked and paid the driver, then turned to Crawley House with a deep breath. Light shone from the sitting room window, bathing the dark path on which he stood in a warm glow. Inside, he knew, were his family.

He was home.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thanks so much for reading!_ _I hope very much that you enjoyed it - I'm very insecure about their letters! - I'd love to know what you thought, reviews are always tremendously appreciated!_

_Coming up next, for Christmas... Well, it's Christmas, and Matthew's home, meeting Mabel for the first time, there'll be mistletoe and presents and GENERAL YAYNESS :D_


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: _Merry, merry Christmas! Riding high on the squee-fest that was the Christmas special (HOW MUCH PERFECTION!), I give you my Christmas present to the fandom... 6,300 words of the fluffiest fluffy fluff you have ever experienced. Oh, and a good dose of STEAM (literally) for good measure (ETA - I did do my research on Wikipedia! They existed!)._

_Thank you so much for your responses to Chapter 15 - I know I say it every time but it means an enormous amount to me. Thank you. And as always thanks to EOlivet for her support and polish!  
><em>

_I'm not kidding, you'll need a dentist after this one. I have no regrets. I do hope you enjoy it!_

_Merry Christmas!_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Sixteen<span>**

As Matthew trod over the frosting snow to the front door, his journey seemed to catch up with him and he suddenly felt terribly weary and cold as he pushed it open and stepped inside. The train between York and Ripon had hit delays with ice on the track, and it was only now that the long hours since his march across northern France to the ship that morning hit him with their full weight.

Almost as soon as it had come upon him, the wave of tiredness dissipated as he first heard Mary's voice, then saw her appear in the hallway from the sitting room. As had always, always been the case where she was concerned, everything else pressing on him seemed simply to fade away in that precious moment as their eyes met.

"I thought I heard the door," she exclaimed softly.

Matthew could only smile, savouring sweetly the long seconds it seemed to take her to walk down the hall to him, his indulgent gaze sweeping over her, until they were at last reunited.

"Mary, darling," he whispered as his kit bag dropped to the floor and he took her into his arms. He was never prepared for the wave of emotion that flooded over him when he saw her again, when he felt her again, when her scent and her softness and warmth in an instant pervaded everything.

He pressed his cold lips to the warmth of her cheek, sighing as his arms tightened around her and he felt her own around him, holding him so tightly as if just to make sure he was really there. His lips progressed from her cheek to her ear, where he murmured deeply, "Do you know how much I've missed you?"

Mary smiled, and shivered pleasantly, as his breath whispered against her ear. Leaning back a little, still wonderfully within the confines of Matthew's arms, she looked up at him with adoration and relief shining from her expression.

"I think that perhaps I might," she replied breathlessly. Oh, if it was even half as much as she had missed him, then she knew it very well!

If she _had_ been in any doubt at all, or in the slightest bit unsure, the depth of longing with which he then kissed her spelled it out in startling clarity.

When they finally made their way into the sitting room, Isobel rose to greet her son with a sparkling grin, trying her best not to notice the pair's swollen lips or flushed cheeks.

"Matthew, dear! We'd begun to think you wouldn't be here 'til tomorrow! Welcome home."

"Hello Mother," he kissed her fondly, and touched her arm. "I'd have been here earlier but the train hit delays with ice – well, I'm here now, and – so glad of it."

He grinned, and looked appreciatively round the room – taking in the modest Christmas tree, the candles on the mantelpiece strung with tinsel, the holly on the table – until his gaze fell to rest once more upon Mary, standing happily beside him with her hand still warmly on his back.

As he looked at her, he licked his lips and they parted a fraction, as he blinked in an unspoken question. Instantly, she understood, and pressed a fond kiss to his cheek.

"Your daughter is already fast asleep in her crib, I'm afraid," she said softly, taking his hand.

"Ah." Matthew's faint smile trembled.

"But come, darling, you must see her and then in the morning you will meet her properly. Unless she wakes during the night, of course, in which case it shall be sooner!"

After politely refusing Molesley's offer of tea (Matthew was too tired even for that, really), Isobel bid them goodnight and the three went upstairs. As Isobel disappeared into her own bedroom, Mary led Matthew to his old study – now the nursery, he knew – where he paused at the door.

Mary had opened it, and by the far wall he could see the crib – all wood and lilac drapes and soft linen. He gripped the doorframe, and found it suddenly difficult to breathe.

For so long, he'd anticipated this moment. He'd thought of it, dreamed of it, longed for it… When he would finally lay eyes on his child. How long had it been now? Seven months; more than that. For seven months, she'd been in the world – like only a fairy-tale to him, a story, a character about which he read – and now at last he was to meet her.

"Darling?" Mary turned back to him, a soft question in her tone.

He blinked at her, breathless.

"Am I ready?"

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed, coming back to him and taking his hand. It was trembling. She kissed him. "Yes, you are ready, dear. You always have been!"

Together, they crossed the room, Matthew's grip on his wife's hand tightening unconsciously as they went.

And then, he saw his daughter.

"Oh," he breathed, as he sank to his knees beside the crib. "Oh, Mary." His whispered voice shook, and he welcomed the silent support of her arm around his shoulders as she knelt with him. Tears pricked behind her eyes as she watched him, his face encompassed with enthralment, wonder and – above all else – love.

Mabel lay swathed in lilac blankets, her little hand up by her softly puckered lips that twitched in her sleep. Mousey hair covered her head, a little wisp of it fluttering over her eyelashes that she batted ineffectually away. Matthew's delighted chuckle filled Mary's heart with joy.

"My little darling," he sighed. She was more perfect than he could have imagined. Tenderly, he reached down and stroked a finger lightly on her powdered cheek, then tickled at her tiny palm. Though she still slept, she wriggled a little and her hand closed around his finger, and Matthew felt an enormous weight of affection press upon his heart.

"You see, dearest," Mary rubbed soothingly over his back, "she's not so frightening, is she!"

"She isn't awake yet…" he retorted fondly. He shifted round a little to meet her eyes, though he still held Mabel's hand lightly between his fingers."Darling, she's… so, so beautiful."

Mary's eyes twinkled happily. "Dear, have I a rival for your affections?" Her hand lifted to touch his cheek, and she smiled as he leaned forwards and kissed her in admonition.

"Don't be silly," he murmured against her lips, then turned again to look down at Mabel. And then back to Mary, savouring her radiant beauty that he'd missed so much, but their daughter was so _precious_… "But I do think – she's – oh, my darling. I love both of you – so, so much. You're both impossibly beautiful and I think I must be terribly undeserving to have _two_ women of such perfection to call my own but –"

"Matthew!" Mary laughed and silenced her rambling husband with a very definite kiss. "I think you must be worn out to speak such nonsense!"

All his exhaustion, forgotten in the almost giddy rush of finally seeing his daughter, now flooded back over him.

"I am," he sighed, passing his hand wearily over his face. "But I must bathe before coming to bed, I'm in a pretty frightful state under the uniform."

Mary simply raised a teasing brow.

"I dare say. In that case, you'd better bid your daughter goodnight and come with me!"

The seductive lilt to her tone was rather hard to argue with. With a tender kiss to Mabel's forehead, and one long, last look at her to tide him over to the morning, Matthew pushed himself to his feet and followed Mary down the hall with some curiosity.

When she pushed open the door to the bathroom, Matthew's eyes widened as his gaze fell over her shoulder.

"What on earth…"

"It's a shower!" She turned and smiled proudly, with a slight shrug. "Mama rather liked the idea of one, but Papa was so horrified we thought we'd have one put in here as a sort of trial. It seemed easier than tearing out the fittings at the Abbey, and – well – I thought you might like it!"

Matthew did like it. He'd used such a contraption once or twice before, in barracks; they were quick and clean and left one feeling very fresh indeed, but were thought too much a luxury to be used often at all.

While Mary disappeared to fetch his nightclothes and a towel (it seemed too late to bother Molesley now, and Mary was more than willing to oblige), he gladly shed his uniform – welcoming the feeling of air flooding to his stifled limbs – and set the water running.

It flooded over him, hot and hard and welcome, the way the water pounded over his skin easing all the tension from his tired muscles. Steam rose around him, and he ran his hands through his hair, tipping his head back as he took a moment just to _enjoy_ the sensation.

Dimly, he heard the door click open, and when he peered through the fogged glass he could just about make out Mary laying a towel over the rail. He saw her move, a strange motion that seemed almost a wriggle though he couldn't see clearly, and was not… expecting her to pull open the glass door before his eyes and step in to join him. His lips parted, eyes glassed over as her alabaster skin, flecking immediately with water, filled his vision and then her hands were on him, slipping over the wetness of his skin and her lips were meeting his and her tongue dancing against his own under the driving force of steam and heat and water…

No words were needed to justify or welcome or appreciate what they were doing, the eagerness of their searching hands and roving lips said all that could be said of it. Breathless gasps mingled with the hiss of water and steam as the wonder of touch and taste was rediscovered, re-learnt… A soft moan of protest passed Matthew's lips as Mary broke from their torturously deep kiss, his hands grasping ineffectually at her shoulders as she sucked gently at his neck, along his collarbone to his chest, while her fingers skimmed down the path of wet rivulets until she reached… him, and a strangled gasp wrenched from his throat.

As Mary's lips scorched down his glistening, wet torso with an increasing and evident determination, Matthew sank back weakly, shuddering at the contrast of the cold, hard tiles at his back to the soft, wet warmth of his wife's tongue and lips and hands working over his front, down… His eyes closed and he swallowed thickly, concentrating everything upon the sensation… He felt her hot breath over him, so close, tickling and taunting… His hand shot out, seeking purchase on the slippery wall for support. The heat of steam and water pervading through his every pore was suddenly heightened and amplified by the… moist heat of her lips closing over him, around him… His head fell back, his fingers twisted into her hair, he hoped desperately that the pounding water would cover, not amplify, the building, whimpering groans of pleasure that the strokes of her tongue, the teasing of her lips, the sure touch of her hands were drawing from him.

Just as his control began to slip away, and he trembled with the effort of keeping his knees from buckling as his darling wife pleasured him in the most _unthinkable_ way, Mary slipped her lips from him when the water in the pipes gurgled. She looked up, her face shining with desire as well as the droplets on her skin, and suddenly rose to her feet to switch the water off in one swift movement.

In the sudden coldness of air, she clung to him, as steam rose and curled from their bodies pressed together.

"When it makes that sound it goes cold within seconds," she gasped against his neck. "I imagine you wouldn't have appreciated that! I wouldn't."

Matthew could only continue to gaze wordlessly at her, and kiss her soundly. But only for a moment. Leaving the shower, still burning with desire, they hastily towelled and threw on dressing gowns before Mary was once more in her husband's arms, her legs curled around his hips as he carried her, stumbling carelessly from the bathroom down the hall into their bedroom.

As the door swung shut behind them they fell to the bed and within moments Matthew was over her, _in_ her, claiming her and _loving_ her and adoring her, and oh, how he had missed her! Damp skin slid against damp skin, their scant dressing gowns were cast off and they writhed together with all the longing and desperation borne of their reunion. Overcome by emotion, sensation, love, pleasure, heat, arousal, Matthew drove almost wildly against her as she welcomed him, urged him to her, over and over again as it all built and melded and broke in that familiar, glorious wave heralded by desperate, loud moans that splintered through the stillness of the house.

And when they were finally spent, their love reaffirmed and whispered and impressed upon each other… they slept soundly, more soundly than either truthfully had in months.

* * *

><p>Breakfast the next morning was a quiet, happy affair. Christmas Eve dawned bright over the crisp snow, and Matthew found himself almost – <em>almost<em> – forgetting, just for a moment, that this could not be his life; rather just a snatched moment within it. The only reminder of his true existence, as it was these years, was his fresh, clean uniform – but that, for once, was all.

As he sipped his tea, linked his fingers playfully with Mary's beneath the table, looked with polite curiosity over an article pointed out by his mother… there was a timid knock at the dining room door, and it opened to reveal a young woman who was neither of the maids that he knew.

"Begging your pardon, Lady Mary –"

"Of course, do come in," Mary straightened in her chair. "Are you all set?"

She bobbed slightly. "Miss Mabel is bathed and dressed, Milady, and I've set out everything she might need. Everything's quite done."

"Splendid, thank you. Oh! You haven't met my husband, Lieutenant Crawley." With which, she turned to Matthew. "Darling, this is Bel's nanny, Miss Ludbrook."

"Ah," he smiled pleasantly. "It's very good to meet you at last! I can tell you, I've had nothing by good reports from Lady Mary, and – even my mother!" He grinned a little at Isobel's fond glare.

"Thank you, Sir! It's a pleasure to meet you, too, if I might say so. If – that'll be everything, Milady?"

"Yes, I think so! Mabel is awake?" Miss Ludbrook nodded, and Mary smiled gratefully. "Good. Well, have Molesley ring for the car – we'll see you in a few days. Have a pleasant Christmas, Miss Ludbrook."

"Thank you very much, Lady Mary. And a merry Christmas to you all, too!"

A round of 'Merry Christmas' and goodbyes, and Miss Ludbrook gave a small, polite wave and left.

"She seems very decent," Matthew mused quietly. Then, very softly; "And – Mabel's awake, now?"

As Mary took him upstairs for the second time to meet their daughter (for this seemed to count as much as a first meeting as had the night before), Matthew tugged gently at her hand with a hesitant admission. "I almost went in to her when I woke, you know."

Once more, they stopped just outside the door. "Only, I – was so afraid that she _would_ be awake, and that… Oh, I don't know. I know she won't know me, but the thought of her – bursting into tears the moment she saw me, or something – I couldn't bear it." His lips pressed into a rueful smile as he swung their hands lightly between them, a betrayal of his anxiety. "Do you think me very ridiculous, my dear?"

Mary simply shook her head, and smiled.

"No, darling. Well – I think you misjudge yourself terribly! But I don't think you ridiculous for worrying about it." She leaned forward onto her tiptoes and pressed a fond, reassuring kiss to his cheek. "Come, then!"

Matthew watched her as she crossed the room to the crib. He took only a step inside, and realised he was holding his breath as Mary leaned down into the crib and took Mabel into her arms with swift ease. His trembling smile widened when he saw the small carved horse figure he'd sent her clutched in her hand (she chewed distractedly at its tail), and the adoring trust with which she gazed at her mama, while Mary murmured sweetly to her and kissed the top of her head.

He couldn't hear her soft words, but saw her smile and point at him, and Mabel twist in her arms to follow her mother's finger.

Now they were only steps away, and Matthew became uncomfortably aware of the thud of his heart. A part of him wanted to run – from his own daughter, only a baby, still, how ridiculous that was! – and yet he was rooted in place. He couldn't seem to breathe, his expression frozen into a small, nervous smile.

Safe within Mary's arms, she turned to see him, peering at him with a curious, intent stare. Matthew gasped, a sharp intake of breath, as her… blue (good Lord, they were so blue!) eyes sparkled into a delighted smile and she bounced a little, disregarding the horse now to stretch her arms out to him.

"Oh, my darling!" he breathed. Whether it was addressed to Mary, or Mabel – either of them, both of them! – wasn't at all clear, but nor did it matter. His heart burst with love, and for a moment, he simply stood there; Mary looking on with great affection at the broad, inexpressibly _happy_ smile on his face. "Well… Hello!"

When, several minutes later, they came into the sitting room, Isobel looked up fondly from her book. She chuckled at the sight of Matthew, bearing Mabel in his arms. In truth he looked terribly awkward! But he looked so delighted, and so did she, and… Isobel reckoned that to see her son with his own daughter was the dearest thing she'd ever seen.

"Well, dear, it seems you made a good impression!" she beamed at him.

"Seems it!" he grinned, sitting down carefully and settling Mabel onto his knee. "There, darling," he murmured, gazing at her with such a look of oblivious adoration on his face that both Mary and Isobel could hardly bear it. They shared a smile, realising that they had little chance of getting any response from Matthew; he was so entirely besotted with his daughter.

Mary perched next to them, curling her arm around Matthew's shoulders and leaning down to join him in tickling Mabel, or swinging her little hands as she bounced and giggled happily. This was what Mary had dreamed of, so dearly, and the reality of it was every bit as sweet as she had imagined.

"You see," she shuffled forward and pressed a kiss to Mabel's head, her soft voice hardly more than a whisper. Matthew delighted to hear the peculiar tenderness with which she spoke to their daughter, a soft, lilting tone that seemed so beautifully precious. "Didn't I tell you how Papa would adore you? Even if he is being terribly silly!"

At this particular moment, Matthew was bouncing the horse figure along his thigh towards Mabel and withdrawing it just as she reached for it repeatedly, and he didn't feel in the slightest bit silly!

"I think," he eased forward conspiratorially then, and picked Mabel up easily, bringing her against his chest where she batted her hands happily for a moment before settling comfortably into him. "Mama is quite capable of silliness herself, only she doesn't like to admit it…"

He took Mabel's contented wriggle against him to be confirmation of this point, and pressed a kiss to her downy hair before turning to grin at Mary, who smacked him fondly. Isobel merely shook her head at both of them.

* * *

><p>On Christmas morning, Mary awoke in comfort and warmth with the delight of Matthew's bare arm around her, his breath falling softly on her neck. She smiled deliciously. It was <em>Christmas<em>, and he was _here_, and for these few days at least they could be a real family. Together.

Carefully, she rolled to face him, gazing indulgently at his sleeping face before wriggling closer to kiss him until he awoke. It didn't take long, and she grinned against his lips as he began to respond and trace warm patterns over her back with his fingers. Oh, she _missed_ this! Leaning back, she touched his cheek in a soft caress and smiled lazily.

"Happy Christmas," she whispered.

Matthew blinked at the flop of hair fallen across his eyes, turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm softly. His hand slipped across her back and over her shoulder to take hers, and for a little while he distracted himself by lavishing her hand and wrist with gentle, tender kisses.

"Happy Christmas, darling." Rolling comfortably onto his back, Matthew pulled Mary into a tight embrace where she lay happily sprawled over him, her head nestled snugly under his chin. It was too precious a contentment to spoil with awareness that it must be so brief.

It was some while later that they eventually rang for tea, dressed, and roused Mabel. This morning, Mary reclined against the doorframe smiling fondly as Matthew took her from the crib without a trace of his hesitation from the day before.

They, and Isobel, arrived early at the Abbey. Matthew was greeted with even more than the usual enthusiasm by Robert; the spirit of Christmas and a sense of gratitude at seeing Matthew safely home for the first time since Mabel's birth (that really seemed such a long time ago, now) cheering him even more than usual. But Matthew, despite his usual affable politeness, seemed barely to notice.

"Don't worry, Papa," Mary greeted her father with a kiss and a smile. "I'm afraid we all have been eclipsed in Matthew's affections, for the moment!"

They turned together to look at him, where he now stood greeting Cora and Violet with Mabel still clutched devotedly in his arms, and though it was quite clear both women were keen to devote some attention to their favourite granddaughter, Matthew was clearly reluctant to let her go.

"And for that I cannot blame him," Robert said with a great deal of affection for the young man. "Merry Christmas, my dear."

Mabel seemed enthralled by the Christmas tree in the hall (not so impressive as previous years, with the war considered) and Matthew was quite happy to stand with her by it for as long as it amused her. He truthfully had no idea for how long he'd been blissfully unaware of ought else when Cora touched his arm gently.

"We're all going through to the library, Matthew dear, to open presents – but come through when you're ready," she smiled graciously.

"Oh! Yes, of course. Thank you." He looked mildly apologetic for his distraction, though really he couldn't find it in himself to be too sorry. This was his daughter's first Christmas, and he was here to spend it with her, and if she wanted to look at the Christmas tree he was very well going to do it with her!

As Mabel's hands stretched out, grasping for a bauble, Matthew took the slightest step forward, making sure she was still secure in his arms as she leaned away from him. It seemed strange to think how he'd taken to holding her so comfortably, when yesterday it had seemed the most awkward thing in the world. And how he thought he'd loved her before, had loved her from the moment he knew she was born, had treasured each mention of her in Mary's letters, but… to see her, to hold her, to look at her and know that she was the very manifestation of the love he shared with Mary… He'd never imagined how much he could love until now.

He was jolted sharply from these musings as Mabel flinched back against him suddenly and screamed. Looking around him in panic for Mary, and realising that she wasn't there – no-one was, actually – he understood with a lurch that he had to do something. Mabel's face was scrunched and pink and fat tears were slipping from her squeezed shut eyes, and he hadn't seen her like this and didn't know what to do! Oh, God…

Bouncing her gently with one arm, he resorted to whispering mindless shushing noises into her wispy hair as he tried to think what could the matter be. What if she was hungry? And how on earth was he supposed to know? She wailed louder, and Matthew frowned desperately.

As soon as he realised, he could've smacked himself for being so unthinking. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head he took her flailing hand, shifting her up slightly in his embrace and nipping out the stray pine needle that had pricked her.

"Hush, darling…" he murmured, bringing her tiny hand to his lips and kissing where it had hurt her, then rubbing his thumb soothingly over it until she calmed. When she eventually did, he found that he felt quite inexpressibly proud – and wished that he might always be able to take away any source of pain in her life.

Hugging her closer now to his chest, he turned away from the offending tree and made his way to the library, pausing when halfway there he looked up to see Mary standing at the corner with an unreadable smile on her face.

"Oh, my dear Matthew," she sighed as they approached her. She clasped his face and kissed him, with unexpected fervour.

"What?" Matthew asked breathlessly, thrown by it. Her proud, almost tearful smile and her hand on Mabel's back answered him well enough. Matthew's lips twitched up, and his face shone with utterly endearing pride. "Well, I… had to do something! And I managed it. Darling thing, though I feel terrible for letting her near it in the first place –"

"Don't be silly," Mary admonished him. "You'd be quite horrified if you knew all the stupid things I've done! I shall forgive you this once," she teased fondly, with another warm kiss. "And so shall she," she assured him.

Matthew smiled gratefully, and they went together into the library where there already seemed to be swathes of discarded paper on the floor. Sitting with Mabel ensconced safely between them on the settee, he and Mary helped her tear the paper from her gifts – she was very spoilt by the whole family! – then set her down carefully on the floor to play. He felt a brief flutter of worry when Isis bounded across the room towards Mabel, but Mary laid a hand on his arm to assuage him. And sure enough, Mabel only sat up taller, clapped her hands together and patted Isis' nose with her sticky fingers, before crawling off after her, chasing her wagging tail. Matthew laughed; it was delightful.

"Matthew, this is beautiful! Thank you," Isobel exclaimed, holding up the delicate scarf she'd just unwrapped.

"You're welcome; it was pretty hard finding things that would fit easily in my kit bag, so I'm sorry it isn't much," he looked up briefly from the gift in his hands, before turning back to Mary who was opening her own from him.

"Oh, my darling!" A delicate golden locket swung from her fingers, glinting in the light. "It's beautiful, thank you."

"You're welcome, darling," he said softly, welcoming her tender, appreciative kiss for a fleeting moment before they remembered they were in company. "I thought I'd leave you to put a picture in yourself, but we can do that together one day if you like. Here…" He touched her shoulder gently and she duly turned, allowing him to fix the clasp around her neck, shivering at the sly brush of his lips against her skin, and his affectionate smirk as she glanced back at him.

Mary stood up hurriedly, claiming the excuse of finding a mirror. Matthew's dark, indulgent gaze followed her, until his pleasantly distracting train of thought was interrupted by Cora, to whom he now looked with polite interest.

"Matthew! It was so good of you to think of us, still, when you must have so much on your mind…" Matthew looked bashful, and dipped his head in acknowledgement as Cora continued. "Has Mary had the chance yet to show you what she had fitted in Crawley House? I'm afraid it was at my bidding, but you may consider it a Christmas present if you like!"

"It certainly was at your bidding," Robert frowned fondly, turning to Matthew as though he hoped for some understanding there. "I can't see the point of the thing, myself, but Cora was very keen – I hope you don't consider it too much of an intrusion. But if you approve of it as well, I fear I'll be hounded to put one in here, too…"

"Ah, you mean the shower?" Matthew smiled, almost apologetically at Robert. "Yes, I –"

"Matthew seemed to enjoy it very much, I think he's rather a fan," Isobel suddenly cut in, her face an absolute mask with an impassive smile, unflinching as Matthew stared at her in consternation. She hadn't – she couldn't have… "I think Mary unveiled it to him the other night. Well, I got the distinct impression he enjoyed it, so you may count one in your favour, Cousin Cora!"

"What?" Matthew stammered, feeling a furious blush creep over his face that he tried desperately to cover as he turned back to Robert and Cora. "I mean, I – well yes, I've seen them before – yes, I think they're a splendid idea, and I did – enjoy it," he said, swallowing thickly as he trailed off.

"That's wonderful!" Cora smiled, oblivious to Matthew's discomfort and the evident pleasure Isobel was taking in it.

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><p>After a pleasant afternoon spent in games and the general silliness that occurs at Christmas, Mabel was put down to rest (much to Matthew's chagrin at leaving her for any length of time) and they went through to an early dinner. Seeing that Mary was engaged in conversation with Sybil, enthusing over a new book, Matthew took the opportunity to draw his mother to the side.<p>

"Yes, dear?" Again, that look of perfect, oblivious innocence hovered on her face that Matthew didn't believe in the slightest.

"Mother, I…" He frowned with a little sigh, pursing his lips as he tried to be delicate about it. "When you mentioned the – shower, earlier, I – hope you hadn't meant to imply that –"

"That I could hear your enjoyment of it? Quite clearly, thank you, Matthew." She might have been bothered by it, offended or disturbed or something like that – well, that had been her first reaction but when faced with Matthew's intense, excruciating discomfort she couldn't help but laugh.

"Mother!" His voice dropped to a distressed hiss. "God, I'm –"

"In fact I'm really rather impressed you managed to not wake Mabel; it's really quite miraculous," Isobel sniffed amusedly.

Matthew looked horrified. "Please, Mother! I'm – so sorry, and – oh, for heaven's –"

"Now, Matthew," she touched his arm gently, as he glared at his feet in embarrassment. "I understand – I do appreciate, my dear, that you haven't seen your wife in a very long time." Matthew simply raised an eyebrow at her, and she mustered a fondly admonishing smile. "However, I might – also appreciate, if you might make an effort to show your – appreciation – rather less vocally, dear. Hmm?"

Matthew licked his lips and nodded, still blushing deeply.

"Don't say a word to Mary, for God's sake," was his final plea. Isobel grinned and patted his arm, then walked away to leave her still rather flustered son behind her.

With rounds of turkey and wine, and the entertainment of Sybil insisting that she really, _really_ wasn't drunk, Matthew had quite forgotten it by the end of dinner. The pudding was brought out aflame, a Merry Christmas was wished to everyone and glasses raised once more. There was an atmosphere of joy around the table, with the war quite forgot for this one day; with the exception of Robert paying homage to each brave soldier in his toast, at which Matthew bowed his head respectfully.

There was barely time to recover from the revelry of dinner before the servant's ball, which had been brought ahead to that evening considering the brevity of Matthew's visit. It made sense to have all the joy out in one day, Cora had thought; then they could all recover tomorrow.

Mary watched, laughing, from the sidelines as Matthew danced with Daisy – what a delightful couple they made! She determined to tease him for it afterwards, even as her heart ached with love for how well he took on all these odd traditions of her family. At the press of Sybil (and even Edith, who seemed to be having a rather splendid time dancing with Thomas), Mary took to the floor herself, allowing herself the pleasure of stealing Carson for a dance. Everything was delight and joy and happiness.

Inevitably, later in the evening Matthew sought his own wife's hand for a dance. He flatly refused to go the entire evening without dancing with her, and – as he led her to the floor – he realised that this would be their first dance as husband and wife.

He murmured this observation softly into her ear as they turned slowly about the floor.

"You're right," she said, leaning in to the warmth of his arm around her and his hand in hers. "In fact we haven't danced together since Sybil's debutante ball, if I remember quite correctly!"

Matthew's hand slipped a little lower down her back, pulling her hips gently against his own.

"I think you're right." They were dancing far closer than was proper, but somehow as they twirled under the soft lights to the strains of lilting waltz music they seemed to forget that. "I was so happy that evening," he remembered wistfully, letting his cheek rest ever so lightly against Mary's hair.

"Oh, Matthew," she sighed. "You know how I –"

"And I am happy again now," he cut over her with soft assurance. "In fact, my darling… I am happier today than I have been in my life, I think."

Mary eased back in his arms, gazing up at him with wondering affection.

"I'm so glad," was all she could whisper.

Overcome with love, the sheer joy he had felt this day and the pricking awareness that soon he would have to part from his family again, Matthew blinked suddenly and looked up, casting his eyes around as if to break the spell before he lost himself entirely.

Then, he spotted something, and smiled. "Ah!"

"What… Matthew!" Mary laughed delicately as Matthew obstinately danced her in the opposite direction to everybody else, raising her eyebrows at Sybil as they went, her heart fluttering in anticipation as she realised where Matthew was guiding her.

He stopped, smiled down at her, and Mary laughed again as her arms tightened around him. "It's only there for decoration, you know; I don't think it's actually meant for –"

Her words disappeared abruptly as he kissed her – chastely, mindful of the company – but even in its delicacy there was an almost overwhelming intimacy. The slight, restrained touch of lips that promised so much, that hinted at deeper pleasures and unrestrained delight in the privacy of darkness… She shivered sharply and pulled back, grinning breathlessly.

"Well," Matthew murmured, though his lips barely moved. "It wouldn't be Christmas without mistletoe, darling!" Mary could only shake her head. He made her so _happy_, so happy she could barely speak but only gasp little shuddering breaths as his hands moved over her back, cradling her so delicately and yet so firmly. "Now, shall we take our daughter and – my mother – and go home, do you think?"

Mary bit her lip and nodded helplessly at the dark promise in his tone. Oh, she loved him so _much_!

Grinning happily, Matthew kissed her cheek once more and they went up together to fetch Mabel. It truly had been the happiest day he could remember. For this one, perfect Christmas day, he had been able to forget that he was a soldier. He'd been able to forget that his time with his dear, darling family was only snatched on leaves. For this blissful Christmas, there was no history of war and fighting and bloodshed. There was no future of that which he would have to return to. There was only this – his family. His wife. Their daughter. The rest of their family that he loved dearly, but… most of all Mary, and dear little Bel, and finally he knew her and held her in his arms, and she had smiled at him and clapped when Mary had called him 'Papa', and… Yes, he was happy.

Tomorrow, or the next day, he would begin to think about preparing to go back. But not tonight. Today he had been happy, and now they were to go home to Crawley House and he would bid his mother goodnight, put his darling daughter down to bed and would make love to his wife. And he would _not_ think about saying goodbye; for he never liked to think of it as goodbye anyway, for that seemed so terribly final and he refused, he absolutely refused, to consider that it might be otherwise.

No, it was Christmas day, he was with his family… and all else was forgotten.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _See what I meant? Sickening. :P Thank you for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it, and if you did a review would be absolutely lovely! I think I may have outfluffed myself. Next chapter will be diving headlong into alternate!s2, hence making the most of the fluff now._

_Thank you!  
><em>


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: _Happy Monday! We're up to November 1916 and into s2 territory. This was a brilliant challenge to write; I do hope you enjoy it! What I'm going to attempt to do is to keep up with PBS airings of the episodes in my chapters, on a weekly basis - well, we'll see how it goes! _

_O__nce again, I've been overwhelmed by your responses to this fic - it's now officially my longest, biggest fic, it's very dear to me, and I've nothing to say beyond: you're all darlings, and I love you! Thank you so, so much. :) Particular thanks again to EOlivet who's an absolute star: if this fic is my 'baby' (IT IS), she's its godmother. _

_Onwards!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<br>**

_November, 1916_

Everything all at once seemed deafeningly loud and oppressively quiet. The guns and the shells and the roars of men were an eclipsing cacophony, but louder than all of that was the thud his own heartbeat in his ears, the harshness of his desperate breaths in the cloying, choking dirt of the shell-hole. Face down, arms protectively covering his head, Matthew flinched as the crash of another shell slammed into the ground nearby, close enough to send earth showering over his back.

Slowly, tentatively, his hands dropped to rest by his face. He twisted, panting from exhaustion, to see the poor sod groaning somewhere near him. Still alive... Just. Thank God. They only had to get back – only a short distance over the mess of the battlefield to the trench – but Matthew had realised with withering clarity these past months that you had no better chance of survival whether you were five or fifty metres from the line.

Though his aching limbs sorely protested, Matthew swallowed his fear (somehow it was both harder and easier to do, now), gritted his teeth with effort and somehow hauled the man over his shoulders, clambering awkwardly out of the pit, head tucked protectively down as he ran. God, it hurt! Around him the earth shook, men fell, bullets flew, but he somehow focussed past all that, fixing his mind on his trench, his dugout, his desk, _Mary_… All at once he was there (How had he managed it this time? He'd given up wondering and just thanked God), the soldier whose name he didn't even know falling over his shoulders into the trench as he threw himself in behind, only to duck against the wall clamping his helmet firmly back on as detritus showered over them again.

"Sergeant Stevens – I want every wounded man taken down the line before it starts to get dark!" he yelled, stumbling down the trench over the bodies and stretchers and guns as he muttered under his breath, "We've bloody well lost enough of them for one day." One day, every day, too many.

Steadying himself as the dugout shook violently, he took the wire message waiting on his table. _Please, let it be good news… This once._

"Ah, good news." Thank God, as he flinched at another crash. "We're to be relieved today by the Devons – the men can finally get some rest, and I've got a few days leave coming to me." And didn't they all bloody need it. These months had been… beyond anything, anything he'd thought his worst nightmares could drudge up.

"What'll you do with 'em, Sir?"

"London first. Remind myself what real food tastes like! Then north for a couple of days, of course." As Davis helped him shrug off his heavy belt, Matthew's eyes fell on his treasured photograph. "Naturally… there's two girls I'd like to see while I'm there." For just a moment, he didn't notice the shuddering walls or shouts outside. He'd missed them, he'd needed them, he'd have given anything to be with them if it weren't for the pressing guilt he felt at leaving all _this_ for some other poor sod to deal with. He wondered distractedly how Mabel had enjoyed her first trip to London, and the train ride…

"So I should 'ope, Sir!" Davis chuckled. Matthew's weary smile cracked through the dirt on his face. "Strange, in't it... To think of our old lives going on as before – while we're 'ere, in this."

"More than strange! When I think of my life at Downton…" Matthew stared almost blankly at the dusty wall as he shrugged his filthy, mud-caked jacket off, his thoughts turning automatically to dream-like images, memories and fantasies of home and peace and _Mary_ and darling Bel… "It seems like another world."

A world so pure, so delicate and fragile, so untouched and so wholly unconnected from the mess he existed within in France. After the hardships he'd faced on this tour, the suffering, the mess and the stink and the sheer _volume_ of death he'd witnessed and been a part of… Downton seemed illogical, nonsensical; too… perfectly wonderful to be quite real. Every time he'd counted himself damned lucky to get back to it for a brief sip of what his life should be, but this time… When countless hordes had died, what charm had he to survive it? His determination, his denial to consider for a moment that he might not see them again had shattered. This time, like never before, he was haunted by the spectre of awareness that it could very well be the last time, for how in _hell_ did he expect he'd be lucky enough to get through _that_ again? He couldn't, couldn't count on it, and it terrified him.

As he stepped off the train in London, he saw his wife and daughter – how she'd grown! – waiting for him. He nearly ran down the platform to them, swept them into his arms and just stood for a moment, breathless and clutching them tightly.

"Darling!" Mary gasped, as he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes, I… Yes, quite alright." He brushed her concern off, pressing a swift, searing kiss of welcome relief to her lips before distracting her from any further thought of it by turning his attention to Mabel.

From where she perched in Mary's arms, Mabel had stared thoughtfully at her father, as if sizing him up; then breaking into a gleeful smile as he took her gently into his own. Her little arms stretched out and around his neck, as Matthew hugged her closely and kissed her soft, mousey curls. "Well, now, look at you!" he murmured, meeting Mary's eyes with a proud smile over the woollen shoulder of her coat.

"Papa!" Mabel leaned back in his arms, patting his face with mittened hands.

As much as Matthew's heart ached with love to hear her first word aloud (to his ears, at least), he tried to blot out the far darker ache of fear pooling in him. How could he leave them, how would they manage… He blinked, recovered his faltering smile and rubbed her back. He was talking to his daughter – _really_ talking to her, for the first time – and he stubbornly clung to that awareness over the dark future that chased his thoughts.

"Are you – are you enjoying London, my little darling?" he gazed at her with unadulterated affection. "Has Mama spoilt you very much, and Aunt Rosamund?"

"Mm!" Mabel chewed at her glove, twisting in his arms to find Mary, standing by his side. "Lo's goo'."

Mary laughed delightedly at Matthew's entertained frown; perhaps trying to ignore as much as he was the bittersweet undercurrent to his joy.

"I think that means she's been thoroughly spoilt and has had a very lovely time indeed, darling!"

Sitting Mabel reluctantly back into her perambulator, Matthew picked up his kitbag and tucked his arm around Mary's back as they strolled slowly back through the city. Despite his undeniable joy at seeing them once more, it was impossible to ignore that below the surface, Matthew Crawley was a deeply troubled man.

Over their last few days in London, Mary watched him, and worried. Oh, his affection was as great as always; he raised a smile and a chuckle at all the appropriate times and she had not the slightest doubt in the depth of his adoration, for he proved it over and over. But he was… quieter, subdued when believed himself unobserved, betrayed little of his thoughts unless directly prompted. He seemed withdrawn into himself, and around him there hung a sombre air. But, she supposed, London was not _home_; and while he'd expressed enthusiasm for the idea of spending a few days there first in his letters, she wondered if it hadn't perhaps been a mistake. Of course he longed for home, for their own house, and so she hoped that he would brighten on their return to Downton.

But then, she thought, watching him on the train while he protectively balanced Mabel where she stood on his knees with her hands pressed against the glass, his letters had been different this time, too. They were briefer, his tone was… not darker, in fact he'd begun hardly to comment on his own situation at all, only replying directly to her tales of home and asking how things were. She'd tried; but somehow those questions about how _he_ was doing were addressed only with a brief assurance that it was 'all much the same as usual' and, he 'wouldn't want to bother you with it, dear' – but oh, how she wished he would! The papers had been full of it, of course; the Somme and how terrible it had been, though of course he couldn't have told her how much he was in it even if he were… Looking at him now, though – she squeezed his hand and he turned to smile at her, kiss her cheek, but there was such a sadness about it – she did wonder what he'd suffered.

"Are you sure about the concert tonight, dear?" she prompted gently. "If you'd rather take the evening to settle at home, no-one would mind, I'm sure."

"Of course we'll go, darling." He linked his fingers distractedly with hers in her lap. "It's to raise funds for the village hospital, isn't it? Seems a jolly good cause."

"Yes. You've your mother to thank for that!"

"Dear Mother," he chuckled.

Isobel was thrilled to see him (well, all of them) when they finally arrived back at Crawley House, late that afternoon. She kissed Matthew, laughed at Mabel babbling about London (she presumed!), then hurried them all to get ready while she put the little girl to bed.

Despite her best efforts, however, when they arrived at the Abbey they found the orchestra already tuning their instruments and most guests seated. Matthew looked around him at the hall – how grand it suddenly looked. Funny how it had become so normal to him. He glanced at Mary, beside him – it'd be their home, one day. Would it? So long as… he made it through alright. What if he didn't? Whose home would it then become? At least Mary and Bel would always have Crawley -

"My dear fellow, welcome back! It's so very good to see you," Robert beamed fondly, distracting him from the sombre turn of his thoughts. As all the family had, he too had wondered over Matthew's involvement in the bleaker reports of the newspapers.

Matthew dipped his head in acknowledgement, forcing a brighter smile to his face as he took Robert's hand.

"I'm terribly sorry we've cut it so fine, it – took longer than we'd anticipated to settle from the journey." His eyes slid to Mary's, which sparkled in response. Isobel only raised an eyebrow.

"No matter, that's quite to be expected. We're glad you managed to come at all! Now please, come this way."

They'd just about reached their seats when the music started up. A huge banner hung over the raised stage, _Help Our Hospital, and YOU are Helping Our Boys at the Front!_ covering it in bold letters. Matthew stared at it. The music washed over him; a pleasant if not entirely successful distraction.

As it went on, Mary stole repeated glances at him, but his expression was unreadable. He seemed at once to be entirely transfixed and yet unaware of any of it, his eyes seemed to glaze into an invisible distance. What was he thinking? Her eyes traced down over him… The neat, clean brightness of his uniform, the short cut of his hair, the straightness of his back; earlier when they'd stolen a moment's passion before re-dressing, without the aura the uniform gave him, he'd been back to himself for a moment. It had just been him, and them, as they should be. Whilst undeniably handsome (so, so handsome!) in his uniform, she wished desperately that it (and everything it symbolised) were gone, that it wouldn't cause him any more discomfort.

Suddenly there was a commotion behind them. Matthew stood on instinct, along with Robert who let out an almighty yell at the women bearing white feathers. Mary twisted in her chair, shocked – of all the inappropriate times and places for such action! It did make her wonder, though… When her dear Matthew was giving so much, _so_ much of himself to this damn war, how could it be fair that others simply chose not to?

"How thoughtless," she whispered as he sat once more. His hand slipped instinctively into hers, and he shook his head pensively.

"They think it's right," he murmured. "Isn't that what we're all doing, what we think's right? Doesn't mean it is."

"No, I suppose so." And they settled once more to simply listen, and think, contentedly hand in hand.

The concert over, the guests dispersed, the family settled down to dinner. Matthew listened with distracted fondness to tales of Edith learning to drive, and Sybil taking up nursing – he felt a surge of protectiveness for the things she'd no doubt face, but couldn't help the thread of admiration beside it. How strange to think that only a few years ago these people had been perfect strangers to him, aloof and resistant – though hadn't he been himself, to an extent? Yet now they were truly his family, dear to him with all sincerity, and… Well, they'd gone along perfectly well without him before that, and they would again, if… Only Mary, darling Mary, but they were her family and at least they'd all be here for his mother, and Bel was already showered with love, so if… Oh, God.

He forced another mouthful of food down (it seemed almost unpleasantly rich now in comparison to his usual fare), and rested his arms lightly against the table, looking up with genuine interest to distract himself as Robert spoke.

"Did I tell you I've been given a Colonelcy, in the North Riding Volunteers – so I'm properly in the army again." He looked unspeakably proud, and Matthew dutifully smiled.

"Oh, congratulations!" But his heart lurched with unease. Leaning to Mary next to him, he asked softly, "He won't go with them, will he? When they're called to the front." He couldn't possibly. Robert had to be here, he was their security; if he were gone as well then how could he be sure of his family's future? God, it was unthinkable.

"I hope not – but he seems to think so."

Her eyes lingered on her husband as he gazed back across the table, deep in thought. She'd seen the brief glimmer of panic in his eyes, couldn't help but notice his distraction… She only wished she could understand! Whatever had happened at the front this time, though she'd seen no particularly grave new scars on his body, it had clearly shaken him like never before.

Reaching out, she clasped his hand on the table and looked at him with an expression of complete love, concern and trust. "What's it been like, darling? Please, tell me."

Matthew's startled eyes shot to hers, and away again as he was suddenly assaulted by memory. How could he possibly tell her, how could she possibly understand? Though the burden was awful, he… couldn't load it onto her, he simply couldn't. Not Mary.

"D'you know, the thing is, darling, I…" he stammered eventually, apology and a desperate helplessness ringing through his words. She was looking at him, so expectantly, so hopefully; oh, but he couldn't! It was too much, too awful, and she too perfect and he couldn't… "I just can't talk about it." His voice dropped to the barest whisper, and Mary's eyes closed in acknowledgement.

"Oh, my dear…" She squeezed his hand, and licked her lips. Perhaps distraction, then, was the best weapon. "I do hope Bel has settled alright," she wondered. The dear thing had been so excited by London, the train, to see her Papa again and Isobel, she'd been on the point of exhaustion when they'd reached home. Mary's lip quirked at Matthew as his expression softened. "Are you missing her very much already?"

He chuckled softly. "What do you think?" Pressing a brief kiss to Mary's hand with enormous gratitude and affection for her understanding, he picked up his knife once more and tried to stomach a little more dinner.

Later on, as they left – Matthew having wished a heartfelt goodbye to all the family as he wasn't sure he'd see them again before leaving – Mary clung fondly to his arm, picking up a thread of their conversation over dinner.

"You know, now that Edith rides a bicycle as well, you'll really have to teach Bel one day – or she'll be terribly jealous! She's already fascinated by yours when it comes out for a polish."

Matthew laughed at the idea. "What a darling thought. I'll devote myself to it – that's, once she's quite a bit older, and… if I get through the war in one piece." His voice dropped, the soft words spilt out almost before he could stop them. Mary pulled him to a stop, staring at him in wide-eyed distress. Never, never had he voiced such a thought, not even the possibility…

"Of course you will!" Darling, don't even think like that," she admonished him, rubbing his arm more firmly (to comfort herself as much as him). They'd never allowed themselves to even consider it before; he couldn't, she couldn't bear it! Matthew could make no response, but kissed her head in apology, before moving again towards the door where Isobel waited outside.

Mary sighed, and forced her tone to brighten. "Remind me, how long do we have you with us this time?"

"Just tomorrow," he said ruefully. "I take the six o'clock train on Thursday. I wish it were longer, my darling…"

"As do I! And then you'll be in France," she sighed, "and we shall be here, thinking of you."

Stopping just outside the door, he took her gloved hands in his and raised them to his lips, fixing her with such a serious gaze that she shivered under it.

"Wherever I'm going… I'm so pleased to be with you now, and – let's make the most of tomorrow, darling."

"Mm!" Her heart fluttered with worry at the finality behind his words, but she glossed a smile over her lips to match his and stepped out into the cold.

When the next morning dawned cold but bright, Matthew and Mary took an early breakfast with Isobel before Mabel was roused and dressed. When Isobel had asked their plans for the day, Matthew revealed his desire to take Mabel to the places he liked most in the village. Mary had thought it a wonderful idea; though she hadn't an inkling that the suggestion was prompted by the desire to give their daughter some memories that he felt some connection to. The idea was somewhere in his head that in the future, she could go to them and think of him, but… Mary hadn't needed to know that. No, he was just going to _enjoy_ today.

Wrapped up warm, they set out, Mabel sitting up eagerly in the perambulator. Though it was November, they'd had Mrs Bird pack them up a picnic, and after a morning spent traipsing through the woods on the estate (Mabel thought the bumpy path a terrific adventure), they settled at a spot by the vast lake to take their lunch.

"And is this one of your favourite places, too?" Mary wondered as Matthew spread the thick blanket over the damp grass. "I had no idea! I loved coming here as a child – to get away from Edith, mainly!"

"It's calm," he replied thoughtfully. "I always felt – better about things, coming here." Taking Mabel into his arms, he paused to point out over the lake. "See, darling, isn't the water pretty in the sun?"

"Ve'y Papa!" She nodded decidedly, thinking her father's opinion quite correct; then peered at him. "Li' Mama?"

Matthew laughed in delight. "Yes! Very pretty, just like Mama." Even the very simplest thing she did was an utter revelation to him, and he swallowed down the sudden threat of tears. Pressing a sloppy kiss to her cold cheek (she planted an equally messy kiss on his own in return), he set her down carefully and watched fondly as she toddled off to explore, never straying too far from the enticement of the picnic spread.

From where she perched on the blanket, Mary watched this exchange with a full heart, thinking it the dearest thing she'd witnessed yet. Matthew seemed brighter, today – thank God! – and she had determined to not think about anything at all other than the joy of this day, all of them together, where they belonged.

While Matthew sat down, taking his cap off and settling it to the side, Mary laid out the food, lips parting as memory flooded back to her.

"Matthew…"

"Mm?"

"Do you remember, our – the meal we had the day after we married?" Lord, she almost blushed even at the memory!

"I do," Matthew's eyes twinkled fondly. It had seemed fitting to him, somehow – to bookend their marriage, as it were, with a put-together picnic lunch, so to have more precious time together.

"We're only missing the raspberry torte, if I recall correctly," Mary said, almost (but not quite) surprising herself as her voice lowered of its own accord. Her eyes fixed darkly on Matthew even as her hand reached instinctively out to stop Mabel from eating the handful of mud she'd gathered.

Matthew's brow flicked up. "It's in the kitchen at home." Dear Mrs Bird, he thought fondly, smiling gently as he glanced at Mary's reaction. He'd asked her to prepare it that morning as an afterthought to the picnic, and had hoped Mary would appreciate the significance at dinner.

Before it got too dark in the afternoon, they wandered back through the village. They looked proudly at the cottages it had been Matthew's inspiration to restore, they snuck into the village hall through an old wooden door at the back, and Mabel tried to clamber onto the raised stage while Matthew showed Mary the more interesting architectural features of the building. She listened with genuine interest – just to hear his voice was pleasure enough! – and laughed when he reckoned that it was the first place she had truly flirted with him. He was probably right, she thought fondly.

As dusk was drawing in, they made their way to the place Matthew most definitely liked the most, of all the gems in the village… which was _home_. Insisting upon putting Mabel to bed himself, he settled her in her crib and read to her for a while, watching her fluttering eyelids fall lower and lower, her little toy horse clutched tightly in her hand as she calmed. He stayed until she slept, and then for a while after, unable to tear himself away from her. His darling daughter… Oh, he knew Mary showed her his photograph every day, but – would she still do so, if he were never to come back at all?

Dinner passed without much conversation. Matthew had fallen back into a pensive mood, and neither Mary nor Isobel quite dared to mention his departure just now; though to speak of anything else seemed trivial. Isobel mentioned proudly how much had been raised for the hospital; that was good news, at least.

They retired early to bed, Isobel promising to wake early enough for breakfast with them. Mary allowed mother and son a moment together, while she went upstairs to ready herself for bed.

It wasn't long before the bedroom door opened, and Matthew entered. Mary arched one elegant brow when she saw what was in his hand…

"Well," he said softly. "I'd hate it to go to waste."

Mary sat back against the pillows, smoothing down her nightdress and folding her hands with a calm she did not feel in her lap while Matthew put the plate down on the cabinet. For a moment he simply stood there, looking at her… Mary, his darling wife, waiting in bed for him. Waiting… God, he hated that she had to wait, and that he had to leave her, and… With a deep breath, a smile ghosted across his lips and he undressed, warming pleasantly at Mary's gaze on him.

"Darling…" he murmured, sliding into bed beside her and easing off her nightdress as she raised her arms to aid him. Mary's eyes hooded as she lay down, and he knelt beside her; it was like… the first time all over again, yet there was a bittersweet shadow. She could practically _feel_ Matthew's eyes sweep over her, gasping as his hand then followed the same path, touching her barely, so lightly, tracing over every curve that he knew so well.

He traced the path again, this time with cream on his fingers that left a trail over her body, that he followed with his lips; sipping, tasting, sucking at the sweetness of her skin. From her neck, down over her collarbone, to the centre of her chest then… out, to her breast and – oh, he could not neglect the other! – his tongue sweeping over her and… again, and again as her hands fisted into the bedsheets to steady herself somehow. Down from her breast to her navel, making meticulously sure that every scrap of cream was laved up or sucked off, and his hand rested on her thigh where it lightly stroked before moving… up, then he found her and…

Mary gasped, back arching off the bed as her hips lifted to his touch. His fingers stroked down, then… into her, one, then a second, and she squirmed in pleasure under him. Her gasps turned to soft, throaty whimpers as she felt the touch of his tongue, his lips; the combined sensations spiralling into senseless pleasure, her toes curling in response as her fingers twisted into his hair.

Oh, he adored her… worshipped her, treasured her, _loved_ her as if he never had before and never would again, as if this were his only chance to _show _her how he loved her. And how he wanted to show her, he wanted her to know it, in every way – as if to stamp his mark upon her, as his fingers quickened and his tongue swept in time, her whimpers turned to low, hushed moans that only spurred him on, until… she trembled, shuddered, shattered under his hands and his mouth and he carried on in the most blissful torture, tasting her sweetness and savouring her. Finally he eased himself back up over her, taking in the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her pulse, her flushed cheeks and darkened eyes – all of it, _her_, fixing into his mind.

Mary was breathless, entirely beyond speech as his finger traced over her lips… sucking gently at them, Matthew groaning low in his throat at the last taste of her on his tongue. Her arms wound around his neck, she arched her body against his as he slid into her with a deep sigh of fulfilment. His arms wrapped under her back and he cradled her slender frame against him with such delicacy and yet such firmness; her legs instinctively now lifted over his hips and they rocked together in the most perfect harmony in the darkness and the moonlight.

It was slow, sweet, exquisite… Their hips rose and fell in time, hot kisses pressed to damp skin, delicious friction building between them as Matthew built a rhythm of drawing back, to plunge back in, each thrust filling her and touching her deeper, and deeper; it was glorious and heady and _wonderful_.

Slow, deep thrusts inevitably quickened, gradually and steadily as they clung tighter to each other, their skin slicking with sweat as they moved together. Mary could feel his lips hot on her neck; her head arched back against the pillows to ease his access and his groans whispered hot against her skin.

They held at the brink, clung to the precipice, desperately but in vain as pleasure overtook thought in an encompassing wave of ecstasy. They crashed together; Mary cried out, tensed into a warm pulse around him as his hips bucked in uncontrolled spasms against hers… Biting back a groan into her shoulder, he trembled in her arms and they collapsed together, exhausted in the most beautiful way.

After long, sweet moments in the quiet aftermath of bliss, Matthew eased himself to the side and drew a blanket over them both, tucking Mary snug against his chest where she nestled, pressing kisses under his chin. They didn't speak, couldn't speak… Not beyond fervently whispered affirmations of love that they would carry with them, no matter what.

Too soon, the bell on Matthew's alarm clock intruded on their sleep. He blindly reached out and stifled it, before drawing Mary closer into his arms.

"Mm," she hummed against his chest as she woke. "Not yet…"

"Sorry, my love," he whispered. "Mary – darling, I love you. So, so much."

"I know." With a sigh, she raised herself enough to peer sleepily at him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "And I love you, dearest Matthew."

He smiled weakly, and they rose, and dressed. It had been on his lips to say, as he usually did, not to think of it – but it no longer seemed possible. Gone was his unshakeable faith that he would return – how foolish it seemed, now. No, he was scared. Terrified, really, that this would be… the last time. The last time he'd see Mary's sleep ruffled hair, the dawn light breaking over her skin, and Mabel… And he'd seen her so rarely anyway; it broke his heart to think of all he'd missed. He sat with her while breakfast was being prepared – it wouldn't be right to wake her, and so he watched her sleep, and drew a shaky breath as he felt Mary's arm come around his shoulders.

After he'd pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the soft curls of her head, they went down to breakfast. They were all quiet, and when it was over and they were ready Matthew embraced his mother tightly.

"Take care, my darling boy," she smiled bravely as she kissed him.

"Goodbye, Mother. Do… Do look after them, won't you? I – know you always would, of course, but –"

"Of course, my dear."

"Right. And yourself, Mother... God bless."

One last, fond kiss, and he picked up his kit bag and walked out, hand in hand with Mary. As they reached the gate he sighed, looking at the village around him, all the everyday life just going on as it ever did. As it ever did when he was not here, and… would, still.

No sooner had they gone a few paces than Matthew slowed, and hung back. Mary turned, raising a curious brow.

"Darling? We'll have to hurry –"

"I know. Might we – just stop in here, a moment?"

Mary simply nodded, the cold thread of fear winding its way into her gut as she followed Matthew into the church by Crawley House.

He said nothing as they went inside, and she watched him from the doorway as he sat in a pew and bowed his head. He'd never… never, done this; though she knew he was generally a church-going man, he'd never prayed before going back to the front, and… Fear fluttered in her belly at what must be in his mind to prompt it. Clasping her trembling hands together, she waited the few moments until he rose, and braved a smile as he took her hand again and they walked to the station.

Steam billowed from the waiting train as they arrived. Drawing slowly to a stop, Mary turned to face him, clasping his hands tightly between her own.

"Do you have him?" she smiled, though felt her lips tremble with the effort, her voice unnaturally bright.

"Of course, darling." Matthew tugged a hand free to draw the little dog out of his pocket. "He's always with me."

"Good. Without a scratch, remember?"

His lips quirked up a little. "I promise; I'll – try not to be a hero, if that's what you're afraid of." He gazed fondly at her, taking in every last second that he could of her beauty and warmth and _her_, feeling the hot prick of unshed tears behind his eyes. The toy went back in his pocket, and he took her hand again.

"Just come back safe and sound, dear!" Mary insisted, as though it were the simplest matter in the world. "That's all."

Matthew blinked away, he couldn't do this… He drew a shaky breath, and moved somehow closer to her. When his eyes met hers again, his fear and his plea could not be hidden. It had to be said, couldn't possibly be ignored, not now. It was too late for all of that.

"Darling, if I don't come back –"

"But –"

"No, if I don't… Then do remember, how very – _very_ glad I am, that we have had the time we've had together, and that we've Bel… Thank you." Mary bit her lip and forced a smile and a nod, fighting back tears. "You've always sent me off to war a happy man, my darling."

He tried to smile, but it faltered as their time drew short. God, he couldn't leave her! Panic clutched at his heart, and at Mary's – she couldn't _bear_ to think of 'if', but he seemed so final about it and her heart ached for him, for _them_.

Matthew kissed her, then; kissed her cheeks and her eyelids and her sweet, precious lips… His forehead rested against hers, and he licked his lips again before speaking. "You and Mother must look after each other, you know, if – anything happens. You're both strong, but you'll need each other."

"Of course, but it won't!" She wished he would stop saying these things, wished she could ease his heart, wished she could stop him going and stop it all…

"And – please, darling – you must find someone else." His voice trembled as his eyes searched hers for assurance. "You're young; you must – you must be happy, please – for Bel, as well as for me."

Her mouth opened to rebuke him for even the suggestion of it – how could she be happy, without him? – when the whistle blew. Her lip trembled as she clutched his hands tighter.

"Oh – goodbye then, darling Matthew –" Whatever else she might have said was forgotten as they kissed, passionately but too, too quickly. She broke from him with a gasp, forcing an encouraging smile. "And such good luck!"

He kissed her again, and stepped back, smiling fondly even as his eyes filled with tears.

"Goodbye, my darling." His voice shook and he took a breath. "And God bless you."

Mary pressed her lips together as he boarded the train, her eyes searching for a glimpse of him at the window but within seconds it was already moving off. She rocked to her tiptoes, seeing him just at the last chance, his beautiful, handsome smile… that faltered as soon as she was out of view. Matthew sank back into his seat, tugging his cap off into his hands as the crushing weight of fear and loss pressed on his heart. He was gone, _she_ was gone, and – God, it was too late.

Left alone on the platform, Mary watched the train shrink and fade until she could bear it no more, physically shaking as it bore her darling, darling Matthew away. Then she turned, covering her face with her hand as she couldn't hold it back any more.

By the time she reached Crawley House once more, her cheeks were cold and stained with tears. Still trembling, she passed off Molesley's concern as she handed him her things, and went into the sitting room.

"Oh, my dear!" Isobel exclaimed, drawing her to the settee to sit beside her. One might have thought they were quite used to Matthew's coming and going now, but she'd never seen Mary in this state. "My dear, what is it?"

"He –" Mary sobbed into a handkerchief, as everything finally broke out of her. "Oh, Isobel – he doesn't think he's coming back." She wept brokenly, not finding any comfort in the warmth of Isobel's hand on her back.

Isobel frowned, and embraced her daughter-in-law tightly. She'd thought there'd been something different in his demeanour this time, a heaviness there hadn't been before. There was only one thing they could do.

"Then we shall pray for him, Mary, more so than we have been, even – it's all we can do."

Praying. It had never quite occurred to Mary before. Oh, she'd always _wished_ him well, and safe, but – that wasn't quite the same thing, was it? Had she been a terrible wife, to not pray for her husband before now? There hadn't seemed much point; she wasn't sure she believed in God anyway – not when such things could happen in the world – but she was desperate, and it could hardly do any harm, could it!

That night, she took out her precious photograph of him and knelt beside the bed, placing it in front of her after pressing a kiss to it and simply looking for a moment. His handsome, darling face smiled impassively up at her, and the ache pressed even fiercer in her heart. He _must_ come back, he had to.

Taking a deep breath, she clasped her hands, rubbing her palms anxiously together.

"Dear Lord… I don't pretend to have much credit with you – I'm not even sure that you're there! But, if you are – and if I've ever done anything good – I beg you, to keep him safe…"

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! So I guess I intended an M/M-fied s2 to be happier than canon, but this is slightly shameful to admit; I actually cried while I was writing the train station scene :S Oops. THEIR FACES, it's too heartbreaking! Anyway, I very much hope that you enjoyed it - I'd love to know what you thought of the altered lines/scenes, so reviews of course will be very gratefully received and appreciated! Thank you! :)_


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: _Thank you so much for all your reviews, alerts etc for ch17! I'm so sorry I haven't replied individually - I just started a new job, and haven't found the time - I hope you'll forgive me with an earlier than usual update! :) Rest assured I appreciate them enormously, your comments make me smile so much, and thank you :) Thanks to EOlivet as well for all her amazing advice with this!  
><em>

_So, episode 2x02! I'll admit, I'd been worried about how to tackle this one. An idea hit me whilst washing up, domestic goddess that I am, yesterday. And, well, I hope it's worked - I do hope you enjoy it, anyway! _

_Onward!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

_28th November 1916_

_Darling Mary,_

_I'm so sorry, Mary. Sorry for frightening you so, and to put such a burden on you – I hope you can forgive me. But don't you see, darling, you – ask me to share it with you, and I'm sorry but that's the truth of it. I couldn't be so blindly naïve any more, Mary. I'd seen too much to keep up the pretence, and I was terrified – and I wanted to treat it as my last, in case it was – in case it has been. Looking back now, I suppose they mightn't have been the last words you'd want to hear from me, but I meant it, darling – all I care is that you will be alright; you, and Bel, and Mother, if the worst should happen. We always ignored it, but I don't think we can any more. You must – promise to always remember me, but not to hold to me, darling – be happy, please._

_There, now it's said, it needn't be repeated – but you know my wishes, and that'll do. My only thought is for you, I hope you can understand that. And I hope to God I'll have said it all in vain, but… well, there it is._

_It's quieter, now, anyway. All is well, my darling. As you always have, you will get me through – and I pray that your next letter, and mine, might be cheerier! Oh, while I do remember – it's funny you should mention Thomas – I ran into him the day after I got back. He made me tea, as a matter of fact. I'm sorry to hear of his injury, though – I expect he'll be pleased to be out of it. _

_Well, darling. My fondest love to Bel, and to you – I love you, my dear Mary. Do always know that. _

_Your very loving husband,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>23rd December 1916<em>

_Dear Matthew,_

_I expect it'll be over by the time this reaches you, so – I hope so much you've had a wonderful Christmas, my love. You may know that I will have been thinking of you dearly through the day – I know it's bleak, darling, but I've no doubt you'll have made the best of it. _

_Mabel is terribly excited – I wonder if she remembers much of last year. The Christmas tree went up yesterday, and she did seem a bit wary of it – perhaps she does! She won't be quite as spoiled as last year; it just can't be done, with things as they are, and of course you won't have been here. We were so blessed last year, Matthew, to have you with us. Despite all else, you might close your eyes and remember that happy time; though I do hope you've had as much cheer there as you're able._

_I know you hate it but as ever, I am glad you're quite bored! I hope you'll enjoy the poems, anyway. I always found poetry to be just the thing when I'm feeling quiet, and thoughtful, as I imagine you must be a lot of the time. So I hope they'll be a pleasanter distraction._

_Merry Christmas, darling Matthew, from Bel and I and all the family. We all miss you; you are in our thoughts daily, as I know we are in yours._

_With all my love,  
>Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>3rd February 1917<em>

_My darling Matthew,_

_Oh, Matthew. I hardly know what to write – I thought it might be easier this time, but it isn't! You must forgive my trembling hand._

_We're to have another child, my dearest. There, I have said it! _

_Doctor Clarkson confirmed it only this morning. I'd wondered, for a little while – you will forgive me for waiting to tell you until I was quite certain of it! As I write, only your Mother knows, and of course she's thrilled. I've told dear Bel, though I'm not sure she understands. But she sees how happy I am and is quite a darling about it! You are happy, darling? It doesn't seem quite so scary, this time. But I do so desperately wish that you might be here. Another six months, darling… Could it possibly all be over by then? It seems too much to hope for, and yet I shall, and shall continue to wish it until it is over. _

_Now I must stop before I cry all over the page. Darling, I love you – you have made me the happiest wife, and given me the most darling of children in Bel, and to think we are to be blessed with another… I couldn't possibly love you any more than I do, I think. See, I must stop! Or you'll think me quite ridiculous._

_I love you, dear Matthew.  
>Your Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>14th April 1917<em>

_My darling Mary,_

_First, my dear, how are you? I know Mother means well, but please do tell her if she's overbearing. At least she's the hospital to keep her occupied just now! _

_Now, I've some news that you'll probably like. I can't go into detail, but I've been requested to transfer to England for a tour of duty, just for a couple of months. By General Sir Herbert Strutt – your father will have heard of him. I'll be there in a fortnight, and I'll have a weekend or so to visit you. I will be on duty, while I'm there – and I shan't be at Downton for much of the time. But I'll be out of danger for a while, darling, and a lot closer. It comes with a promotion, to boot – so you shall welcome me home as Captain Crawley, from now on! _

_I'm thrilled to be able to see you, darling – and soon. _

_Stay safe, and keep well. _

_With all my dearest love and affection,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p>He'd made it. God only knew how, but he'd survived again. England seemed so much fresher, so much brighter, than it had the last time! And this time, he could enjoy it – for two whole months, he'd be free. Not free, exactly, but – without the pressing fear of the trenches to return to, not for a while, at least. He could <em>enjoy <em>these few days with Mary and his family without the last of it darkened by that old fear.

As he walked from the train station to the house, a bright smile lit his face. He'd really convinced himself he'd never see all this again – felt he'd had to – and how wonderful it felt to be doing so! His smile grew as he turned the corner and saw Crawley House – the garden looked beautiful, full of colour, and life.

"Papa 'ome!"

An excitable squeal rang out and Matthew looked up to see Mabel bounce out from a flowerbed (Lord, what was she doing in there?) towards him. Laughing, he dropped his kitbag and lowered to one knee, holding his arms out.

"Hello!"

Mabel fair on leapt into his arms, and he rose to swing her around, covering her darling face with kisses as she giggled delightedly. "Haven't you grown, darling?"

She nodded firmly. "Mama say. Miss'd you," she mumbled somewhere into his shoulder, curling happily into his chest. Swallowing back his emotion, Matthew kissed the top of her head. How beautiful she was, nearly two years old now – quite the fairest thing he'd ever seen, and he was _here_ to see her again…

Just inside the open door, Mary's ears pricked at the sound of her daughter's excitement. Unable to hold back the smile spreading over her face (had she really been trying to?), she stood and hurried out. She stopped at the door – oh, how darling they looked together! God, he was here, oh thank God. She could have burst with happiness.

She took advantage of Matthew's happy distraction to compose herself; patting her hair into place and smoothing her skirt over the gentle curve of her belly.

"Well, Captain Crawley," she said softly, carrying a definite seductive lilt. She'd surprised him; that dearly familiar little thrill running through her at his completely endearing slack-jawed expression as he whirled to face her – only furthering as he saw her properly and how she'd changed. Oh, he was a darling and she loved him so! She waited, just a little breathless, for him to come to her.

It only took a moment for him to moisten his lips, swallow, and recover that little alluring smirk and air of confidence that always made her heart flutter – however offset that was by the suddenly tired little girl contentedly sucking her thumb in his arms.

"You approve, then?" he teased, slowly (so painfully slowly, it seemed!) closing the distance between them.

"Mm!" She cast her eyes appreciatively down over him, indulging in the sight of him after how they had parted last… placing a hand softly on his chest. "I think I rather do."

Despite the fact that Mabel necessitated an awkward twist to the side, their kiss was languid, deep and taunting, and though only brief left them both definitely breathless as their foreheads rested together.

"Must we dine at the Abbey this evening?" Matthew quietly gasped. This was too sweet, too welcome.

Mary chuckled lightly. "Yes, darling. Aunt Rosamund is visiting especially, and Mrs Patmore has practically slain the fatted calf for you – but there's – oh, a couple of hours 'til we really need to change…"

Her hand curled around his neck to pull his lips to hers for another slow, burning kiss that coaxed a low hum of desire from Matthew's throat, Mary's lips grinning against his own… until Mabel roused herself by dragging Matthew's cap off over his face (breaking the kiss quite decidedly as it bumped over Mary's nose) to inspect it at her leisure.

It was not possible for her parents to mind. Bursting with affection, they went indoors… the spell broken, just for the moment, but not forgotten.

* * *

><p>There was a quiet, contented hum of amiable chatter in the Abbey's drawing room later that evening, when they were announced.<p>

"Mrs Crawley, Captain Crawley, and Lady Mary," Carson stood aside as they went in.

"Isobel," Robert nodded at her as she passed, then turned to Matthew with a sigh of relief. "Well, now… Still in one piece, thank God." Mary had hinted at her concern after his leave before Christmas, and… well, it was very good to see him safe and well.

"Touch wood!" Matthew, in truth, looked equally relieved.

"I never stop touching it," Robert chuckled.

After the round of polite greetings was done with – the usual spiel of how good it was to see him home and safe, wasn't it thrilling about the baby, wasn't Mabel turning into quite the little picture of her father – Matthew left Mary to chatter with Aunt Rosamund as Robert motioned him over to the fireplace.

"Yes, I – feel very lucky," he smiled, as the elder man commented on the opportunity of this tour. "It's lovely to be closer to home for a while – particularly with Mary as she is."

"Of course, of course. And that's wonderful news, too, dear boy."

"Thank you," Matthew's eyes lit with pride, and Robert smiled. It was a real blessing indeed.

The Earl took another sip of whiskey.

"What's General Strutt like?" he asked then, curious about the famed General. For Matthew to have been requested by him, personally – well, it seemed quite the honour.

"You know, rather important," Matthew shrugged. "And brave – he won the DSO in South Africa."

"Is there any chance it might be permanent – that we can count you out of danger?" Even as Robert suggested it – meaning well, of course – Matthew's lips parted to protest. "It would be such a relief."

"I… wouldn't want that, I'm afraid." It clearly wasn't the answer the Earl had wanted, but Matthew couldn't apologise for it. Contrary as it seemed, no matter how dreadful it was, how dangerous, how wretched – no matter _how_ much he'd wish to be safe and near his family – the front was his place. He'd _been_ there, suffered there, borne men up and seen them torn down and existed in the thick of it… How could he even think to shirk it? "He's promised to get me back to France when he's done with me."

Keen to shift the focus off himself, he engineered a swift change of subject. "How's your new appointment with the North Ridings working out?" he asked, knowing how delighted Robert had been about it – but the Earl suddenly came over distinctly uncomfortable.

"Oh, that. It seems I won't be going to the front after all. I made a mistake." Bitterness rang in his tone, and Matthew looked away, sorry to have asked. "They only wanted a mascot."

Matthew watched as he stalked away, unaware that anyone was behind him until Mary tapped his arm.

"Sorry about that – I should've warned you."

"He's been awfully down," Cora said, her voice hushed though her husband was now the other side of the room. "I can't say _I'm_ disappointed how it's turned out, but I wish _he_ didn't feel so rotten about it."

"Not to worry," Matthew smiled, feeling only a little awkward. "War… changes things, your perspectives – makes us see things as though through a broken lens, I think."

"I should say."

Mary's throwaway comment was quiet, under her breath; staring distractedly at her fingers playing with her long necklace.

"Darling?" Matthew frowned.

"What? Oh, nothing." She shook her head and smiled, rubbing her hand down his arm affectionately; a sign of peace (if one were needed). "You're right, dear, that's all – how it alters our perception of things. Maybe it should do, who can say?"

Soon enough, they went in to dinner. The formality, as usual, gave Matthew a strange sense of displacement. Glancing up, he caught Mary's eye watching him. She smiled, and lowered her head demurely, colouring only a little when Matthew's hand alighted on her knee under the table. She smacked it lightly away and he grinned fondly, turning his attention back to the conversation when Violet mentioned a familiar name.

"I gather your footman, Thomas, has returned to the village." Her tone, of course, was disapproving.

"Crikey. Where did you see him?" Robert ventured.

"At the hospital. Seems he's working there," she sniffed. Matthew raised an eyebrow, the comment striking a chord in his memory. How Thomas had asked how he might get back to such a role.

"I wonder how he wrangled that," Robert frowned. Matthew wondered. Mary had mentioned the ex-footman's injury but he'd never thought… No, it seemed a slight to even think it. Bad luck, the whole damned war and everything in it was just bad luck. Still it seemed awfully -

"No, no, give that to me –" Carson's agitated hiss at the new chap, Lang, distracted Matthew before his thoughts could turn any further. In the fuss a silver platter clattered over the table, and,

"Oh!" Edith screamed, jumping up in horror at her stained dress.

Across the table, Mary's anxious gaze followed Carson; the normally unflappable butler seemed terribly flustered.

"I do apologise, my Lady – Mr. Lang, get a cl-" His words trailed into a groan, his cheeks turning alarmingly red as he seemed to collapse slowly over the table.

Isobel was the first to react, pushing her chair back hurriedly, swiftly followed by the rest of the family.

"Now, Carson, it's alright," Mary was barely a second behind, placing a comforting hand on Carson's shoulders, her words ineffective but at least calming, she hoped. "Everything will be fine."

She turned gratefully at the comfort of Matthew's hand on her own back, as Isobel calmly issued orders for Clarkson to be fetched and telephoned. "Sybil will know what to do until the doctor comes," she said, desperately hoping it, at least. Thank the Lord her sister had an inclination to nursing, after all the fuss there'd been.

"Lady Sybil and I will take him upstairs – if Mrs. Hughes will show us the way, please," his action turned now to Carson, his confidence seeming to settle everyone a little.

"I can help," Mary insisted, but Sybil shook her head.

"No, let me, I know what I'm doing." If her thought was to put Mary at ease, it really didn't work, the last thing she wanted was to sit uselessly!

"No darling, sit down," Matthew urged at almost the same time, overly mindful perhaps that her own distress might bother the baby. "We're quite alright."

She finally stood back helplessly, as Carson continued to protest his health while Matthew drew his arm over his shoulders, taking the butler's weight as they helped him from the room.

An unsettling quiet seemed to settle over the dining room, with everyone gone to their various tasks. Mary sank back into her chair, barely glancing up even at the wry commentary on the disturbance by her grandmother and aunt.

"There's never a dull moment in this house," Violet chuckled.

"Well, I wish there was!" Mary exclaimed, suddenly frustrated. How could they be so uncaring – how could they not see what was important! And it was not just this, not just Granny and Aunt Rosamund but…

Her appetite vanished completely, and she stood, flinging her napkin to her plate in bother.

"Now, dear, the baby…" Her grandmother cautioned against her agitation, but Mary only whipped round with ice and fire in her eyes.

"As if I think of anything else!" she snapped, and suddenly seemed to wilt. "I'm – going to lie down… Please, tell Matthew."

Before waiting for a response she swept from the room, clung unsteadily to the banister as she found her old bedroom – just as it was, she thought with a glimmer of pleasure – and sank to the bed, resting the back of her hand wearily over her eyes as she sobbed in frustration.

* * *

><p>How long it had been, she really couldn't have said, when Matthew quietly entered at last.<p>

"Darling? Are you quite alright?" He tried to quell the tremor of concern in his voice as he whispered, crossing immediately to perch beside her on the bed, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it softly. He'd jumped to panic when he'd returned from Carson's bedside; but had been ordered by the women of the household to let Mary rest undisturbed for a while. They were right, he realised pathetically; he didn't know the first thing about a woman with child, what to do, what could happen, how they changed… His mother had assured him that such outbursts were not uncommon; that he mustn't take anything personally and that above all he should just stay calm. Well, he thought; that was very well easier said than done!

"Matthew?" she whispered softly, slowly sitting up with a quiet sigh.

"I'm here, darling."

"I'm glad… Oh, Matthew!" Her voice broke suddenly into a sob and she fell against his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her as he held her closely.

"Shh, my darling," he murmured, kissing the top of her head as his hands rubbed soothingly over her back. She was very fond of the butler, he knew – of course she was worried. "Carson's doing well, it's not serious. Don't worry. Please don't worry."

Though there was more to it than that, his voice was low, soft and calming, and Mary gradually and helplessly settled in his warm embrace. Finally she leaned back, a weak appreciative smile gracing her lips as she looked at him deeply and clasped his dear face.

"That's good to hear," she acknowledged his assurance. "Dear Matthew." He smiled in response, and dipped gently forwards to brush his lips to hers, more in a gesture of comfort than anything else.

Mary blushed (invisible though it was in the dark) and pulled away again, blinking with wide eyes at her husband. "You're… in my bedroom!" she exclaimed quietly, forgetting her bother for the moment at how strangely absurd (but not at all unpleasing) this realisation was.

Matthew hadn't quite seemed to realise it either.

"Oh, I… do appear to be, don't I…" He smiled, a little bashful, and kissed her again. This time, though, it escalated quickly… not so brief, nor so gentle. It wasn't the comfort Mary sought, but it was… so pervading, his warmth so alluring. In a place that had always been her own, a glow of assuredness, of confidence burned through her as she felt his inevitable reaction to her.

She pushed – a little forcefully perhaps – enough to send Matthew toppling breathlessly to his back. He gave in to her – recognising the dark glint in her eye – he grinned, and surrendered; offered no resistance as she climbed over him and her fingers sought his belt.

Mary allowed the thrill to bear her away, to drive everything else from her mind as they made love. It was fast, furious, passionate, her dress hitched up around her hips as they forgot propriety and everything but each other. What had propriety to do with it? He was her husband, and if she could control one thing, it was _this_, and she held herself over him –on him – and gazed unashamedly as the quickening rock of her hips caused his eyes to darken and close, his lips to part in wordless gasps of pleasure, his back to arch up and his head to throw back against the pillows… Her hands braced almost possessively on his chest, his own clasping over them, feeling her forehead bead with sweat as she drove harder, watched him come apart under her in one final, glorious shudder of ecstasy as she collapsed against his chest, breath gasping out in quick pants against his neck.

Oh, but that was better… Her lips curled into an indulgent grin as his arms wrapped over her back, and for just a few moments she contented herself by sipping at the hot salt from his skin.

"You know, I'd –" he gasped, "been about to say that – my mother was waiting to leave…"

Mary pushed herself up slightly, grinning wickedly down at him.

"Oh, darling, did I distract you?"

"A little," he smirked breathlessly. "But, I – shan't hold it against you, my darling."

"Quite so!"

She kissed him again, with a slow, drugged intensity, and it seemed a gloriously long while before they finally rose and rearranged their clothes for company.

"You are alright now, darling, are you?" Matthew asked as they walked hand in hand down the stairs, a warm shawl over Mary's shoulders. "And – the baby?"

"Yes, of course," she brushed off his concern and hugged her arm a little tighter around his back. "Don't _you_ start to worry!" However, now the fire of her passion had started to cool, her unease had returned. How could she say it, though? It hardly seemed the time, and – well, it was hardly pressing now, not with Carson how he was.

Satisfied with this, Matthew chuckled. "Alright. Let me fetch our coats, and Mother –"

"Actually, darling…" They'd reached the hall, and Mary stopped suddenly. "Would you mind terribly if I just went to say hello to Carson? Please, fetch our things ready to leave, I'll only be a minute or two."

Matthew couldn't object to this, and dutifully went to his mother while Mary hurried to Carson's room. It was a long, long time since she'd been here – not since she was a little girl, surely – but finally she was there, and after tapping softly on the door, went inside.

"May I come in?"

She smiled fondly as Carson flustered, and sat himself up straighter.

"That's very kind of you, my Lady, but do you think you should?"

"I don't see what harm it can cause Baby or I, Carson – and rest easy, please." She held her hand up to stop his unnecessary fuss, and calmly pulled a chair to sit down. "I gather it isn't too serious?"

"Oh, I've been very stupid, my Lady. I let myself get flustered – I regard that as highly unprofessional; it won't happen again."

"You mustn't be too hard on yourself," she assured him. Dear Carson!

Carson sighed, his expression heavy with disappointment. "I was particularly sorry to spoil things for Captain Crawley – as you were celebrating his promotion, and the little one."

"Don't be," Mary shook her head, hands instinctively falling to cover her belly. "I think he found it all quite exciting!" She blushed, suddenly, and lowered her head as Carson murmured,

"Oh. Will we be seeing a lot of him, if he serves in England now?"

"I don't know! Maybe." Mary shrugged and pressed her lips into a smile, but Carson's question had brought it all back up again. She stared at her hands in her lap, tugging at the finger of one glove as she felt her lip tremble.

Carson watched her for a moment, frowning.

"It's… a change to be happy for, is it not?"

"Oh, Carson," she sighed. Of all people, he had burden enough without her worries! "Yes, yes it is." The butler said nothing, but fixed her with an expression of such care that Mary couldn't help herself. "I only – wish Captain Crawley thought so enough to wish it permanent, but he doesn't. He'd rather – be back out there, than – out of danger, here. Even with everything as it is!"

Earlier, she'd heard her father's query, and Matthew's reply. That he wouldn't _want_ to stay in England. Close to his family. _Safe_. An ache had blossomed in her heart, how could he not want that… Didn't he care enough about them to realise that they needed him, to take any chance of providence he could for their sake? Oh, she was being silly, she imagined… Of course he loved them dearly, but – he wouldn't see it that way, and his damned sense of honour…

Carson continued to watch her thoughtfully, and she took a deep breath, raising her head and smiling weakly, brushing at her tearful eyes. It was just the baby making her emotional, that was all. There; it was better.

Not so. "Might I – give you one piece of advice, my Lady?" Carson sat a little further forward. With no further energy to argue it, Mary simply raised her eyebrows for him to continue. "Tell him what's in your heart. If has the opportunity to stay on, and you want him to – let him know."

His age may be showing itself, but Carson hoped that age had given him some sense of wisdom, and discernment – and it was fairly clear that Lady Mary felt her worries not worth the trouble. "There's no harm in asking him again, my Lady - then you can't be sorry for having tried."

"But I'm sure it's a silly thing to worry over," Mary shrugged, sniffing quietly. "He might not even have the opportunity; it's only a wishful thought. It's hardly worth causing a fuss over, not when he's so much to think of."

"Hardly worth causing a fuss over," Carson echoed her, rebuking her fondly. "As if any husband that loves you might think your slightest concern to be 'hardly worth causing a fuss over'."

That raised a smile, at least; a proper one. He smiled back, but before he could say any more, Mrs. Hughes had entered with a tray of medicine.

Mary rose to her feet, reassuring the housekeeper that all was well, thanked Carson and made her way back to her family.

Darling Matthew. As she crossed the hall to where he waited, standing tall and handsome by his mother, her heart fluttered with equal fondness and worry. Perhaps Carson was right, surely there was no harm in asking him again… But – well, after all this she knew very well it might just be the baby making her feel things too sensitively. Matthew smiled at her, helped her tenderly on with her coat, and gave her his arm; and her heart melted afresh. No, they had two months yet for all that – it could wait. For now, she must just enjoy him being home.

With that in mind, Mary drove it all determinedly from her mind the next day. They unashamedly spent the morning in bed, enjoying the sensation of warm sunlight on bare skin… and taking indulgent, unhurried pleasure in each other.

Some time before lunch, they rose. For some reason or another (probably the lack of breakfast, though she wasn't going to complain about that), that afternoon the baby was causing everything to ache; the discomfort confining Mary to the settee for the rest of the day. But Matthew didn't mind, and Mary was perfectly content to recline there and watch him with Mabel; reading to her, or tickling her, or patiently answering her incessant queries of "What's 'at, Papa?" with enormous fondness. At one point, they disappeared for half an hour and returned with definitely muddy hands and knees (and somehow, faces), bearing two brightly coloured bunches of flowers from the garden to "make Mama bett'."

It being a Sunday, Isobel had decided the hospital could do without her for one day, and she made use of the time to catch up with letters and reading whilst she observed her son with equal fondness. Though she'd never admit it to either of them, she also wanted to keep a watchful eye over Mary, as much to reassure Matthew about things as anything. He'd worried so the previous evening, when he'd returned from taking Carson up – he didn't know yet that such episodes and outbursts were quite to be expected.

By evening, Baby had settled a little, and Mary was able to stomach some dinner. Mabel tired early, and Matthew (as he usually did on these rare opportunities) took her up to put to bed – a habit Miss Ludbrook no doubt appreciated dearly. Much later in the evening, when Isobel had gone to bed, Mary wondered again about Carson's advice. Nestled in Matthew's arms in front of the fire, after everything that day, she knew with utter conviction that he loved them. How could she doubt it in the slightest? But why, then, wouldn't he jump at the chance to remain doing his duty in safety… at the chance to take every step he could to ensure his return to them at the end of the war? If he loved them so much, and she knew he _did_, then how could he _want_ to go back… Thinking about it made her head ache fiercely. Noticing her frown, Matthew kissed her forehead, and suggested they went to bed. They did.

* * *

><p>Isobel left early the next morning. Something during the night at the hospital, some young soldier… committed suicide, it seemed.<p>

"How dreadful," Mary whispered as they took breakfast later, idly stroking Mabel's hair where she sat beside her.

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "It happens." It was rotten – all of it was rotten. Mary wasn't used to it so close to home, he supposed. He'd said yesterday that he'd go down to lend a hand at the hospital today, and he felt the need even more so, now.

"Clearly it does, but I wish it didn't." She shook her head, unable to imagine (nor did she want to) what could drive a young man to it. Unease stirred in her again as she thought of the horrors, the wounds, what Matthew must see… She shivered, and sent Mabel upstairs to play in the nursery.

Shifting in her chair slightly, she pursed her lips.

"What is it, darling?" Matthew looked up from the paper. "Baby, again?"

Mary's lips parted; closed again. Should she? No, she had to. She took a breath, and looked seriously at her husband.

"It's nothing much, my dear. Only –"

"Excuse me, Captain Crawley," Molesley's sudden appearance cut her off. "A telegram just arrived for you."

"Oh. Thank you," Matthew nodded and took it, raising his eyes to Mary in a signal to continue as he slit it open.

"You see, I couldn't help hearing at dinner, the other night, when Papa asked you –"

"Damn!" he hissed over her, frowning at the telegram. Worry and frustration pooled in Mary's gut.

"What?" she asked, carefully.

Matthew let out a sigh, and sank back into his chair, letting the telegram drop to the table. Passing his hand wearily over his face, he glanced up apologetically.

"Darling, I'm so sorry – Strutt wants me a day early. I've to leave in the morning… I'm sorry, my dear." He reached over and took Mary's hand, squeezing it gently.

"Tomorrow?" She clutched his hand unconsciously, moistening her lips.

"'Fraid so." He thought for a moment, and tried to offer some small comfort, as difficult as it was. "Still, at least it shan't be so hard a goodbye, this time? I'm not going back to the front, so there's nothing to worry over."

"No." Mary sat up straight, drawing in a deep breath – this was the final straw. "But, Matthew – if you could have the chance – wouldn't you always want that?"

Matthew frowned. "Darling, what do you mean?"

"I heard what you said to my father. That if General Strutt could make this transfer permanent… you wouldn't _want_ it." She was almost trembling, and tugged her hand from his, back into her lap. "I've tried, but I can't understand. If you had the chance, Matthew, you'd be safe –"

"Mary…" Feeling decidedly uneasy once his shock had passed, Matthew tried to keep his voice calm. "You don't understand –"

"You meant it, then? If you were offered the post, to remain serving in England for the remainder of the war – would you take it?"

"God," he muttered under his breath, looking heavenward, then back at Mary. Licking his lips nervously, he finally said, "No. I don't believe I would."

Cold frustration, almost anger, rose in Mary's chest, and she stood up brusquely.

"You see!" she exclaimed. "How could you reject the prospect of safety –"

"It's my duty, Mary –"

"What about your duty to your family?" she flung the challenge at him, heart breaking at the cold reality of his admission. Her words hit Matthew like a blow, and he rose to his feet to match her stance, eyes narrowing bitterly.

"My –" For a moment he was too angry to speak and took a deep breath. "My family, _you_, are the most important thing in my life. You know that."

"Then isn't it your _duty_ to us to look after yourself? You want us to be alright, Matthew, but we need you –"

"I keep you safe by fighting to keep this country safe!" His words spat out like bullets.

"And the army would fall apart without you, I suppose? Without _you_, the country is in peril?"

"Don't be ridiculous; if every man thought like that, then –"

"What, Matthew? You wouldn't be deserting the army, you wouldn't be failing to serve, someone needs to do these things –"

He cut her off, sharply. "It isn't the same. I'm sorry, but driving around recruitment camps just isn't what I'm –"

"Oh, don't pretend that a quiet life doesn't suit you, Matthew, you're a lawyer," she bit back.

"For God's sake, Mary!" He gripped the back of his chair, aware of his chest heaving with his agitated breaths. "I can't… I can't sit safely in England, letting others take the risk for my family. _I_ should do it; I've been there, I can't – leave it to others to go through that hell, not when I can –"

"So you think that by flinging yourself recklessly into danger, you're protecting us?"

"I think –"

"No, Matthew, to protect us you need to protect yourself!" She was angry, so angry, he was being blind and obtuse and she couldn't _see_… "Damn you and your blasted honour - I'm sorry, I don't understand -" she flung at him. And something within Matthew snapped.

"Of course you don't bloody understand!" he yelled. "How could you, for God's sake!"

Mary flinched back, stunned, staring at him with wide, almost frightened eyes. His face was a mask of anger, sorrow, regret, fear. She couldn't say anything more.

After a moment's deafening silence, Matthew shunted his chair forcefully back under the table, lips tightened fiercely. "I'm going to the hospital, I told Mother I'd help."

"Oh, do what you like, Matthew," Mary spat ungraciously back; more from hurt and shame now than any anger.

He didn't say another word, only stormed out of the dining room with a thunderous expression. Only a moment or two passed before she heard the front door slam loudly shut.

By the time Matthew reached the hospital, he'd only calmed a little. On the inside, his emotions raged… Anger, disgust at himself, frustration that Mary couldn't, _shouldn't_ understand, misery for having fought with her, sorrow that he just _couldn't_ do what she wished… It was no good; he couldn't shirk the responsibility weighed upon him just for her peace of mind. Part of him hated that he couldn't. In many ways, she was right – it _would_ be a duty, of sorts, still; and shouldn't his aim be to come back to them? But that didn't matter; it was a different life… He _was_ a soldier, now, and a bloody good one as it happened, and he couldn't hang back here and leave it for the rest to deal with.

Still reeling from the argument, when he saw the ambulances and bustle of men outside, he slowed. While it didn't compare – couldn't compare – to the horrors that he'd seen, still, to see all this in Downton… Mother had said they were getting more and more full, there was so much destruction, that it should be _here_, where the war was not supposed to intrude…

Well. Blinking against the sun, he eased between a stretcher and a wheelchair, finding the door. Men and nurses milled everywhere. Once his cap and gloves were down, he followed the trail of wounded men into the main rooms.

Beds seemed to occupy every inch of floor.

"Doctor Clarkson," he greeted the family doctor, who merely nodded in passing as he went to help someone else.

"Oh, Matthew!" He turned, and saw his mother, ushering people everywhere. "I'm afraid I'm very busy, as you can see."

"Yes, I just want to help," he insisted. Already his mother was directing someone else, Clarkson pointing a man to a bed, he spotted Sybil over by another… He walked between the beds, a strange lightness in the pit of his stomach, feeling utterly helpless in the chaos of bandages and antiseptic and wounds.

God, what had he been thinking? A wave of nausea swept over him, cold sweat broke on his forehead as he stared at some poor sod with a missing leg, they were all so damned pathetic and he couldn't breathe for a moment. His hand covered his mouth as the terrible reality of it all hit him afresh. Why had he been fighting with Mary? What did _anything_ matter other than that he loved her? What an absolute _sod_ he'd been to fight with her, when their time was so precious. And it terrified him, to see such helplessness, the prospect of shattered independence, of ruined half-lives… a more miserable existence even than death would be.

"Matthew, are you busy?" Sybil's soft voice broke him from his stupor, and he tried to shake himself out of it.

"No, of course not."

He went to the soldier she indicated, whose legs were damaged and immobile. Muttering some meaningless comfort, all he could do was pick the man's legs up and swing them over into the bed… doing his to not allow any pity to show through his expression, for God knew he felt it and would detest it were their positions reversed.

* * *

><p>In the hours since Matthew's aggravated departure, Mary had done a lot of thinking. Sitting in the garden, now, cradling Mabel in her lap with a picture book, she wondered how she could've been so thoughtless.<p>

Matthew had been right, though it ached to realise it. She couldn't possibly understand what he'd been through. And if what he'd been through gave him the drive to stick it out with those other brave men… She was unutterably proud of him, of the sacrifice he was willing to make. And she realised, as she sat under the warm April sunshine, gazing down at their daughter who was the very embodiment of her love for him… that if he wasn't determined to fight his hardest, serve his best, at the front with the best and the worst of men… then he wouldn't be the man that she loved. How had she been so blind?

Holding Mabel as closely as she could, Mary hummed softly to her, rocking gently as a cool breeze lifted her curls. Oh, she loved him, and that was all there was to it. Whatever happened, whatever he thought was best to do… she would love him.

Quiet footsteps sounded down the lane, growing louder and closer over her song. She looked up, unable to hold back her smile as Matthew rounded the corner onto the path.

He slowed a moment, meeting her smile with his own – an equal note of apology in it.

"What's doing?" he tentatively asked; the quiet greeting like a truce.

Mary rose labouredly to her feet, resting Mabel naturally on her hip as she put the book on the table.

"'Bel's a bit upset," she smiled gently.

Matthew looked, and noticed how Bel blinked forlornly up at him, thumb firmly in her mouth while her other hand possessively clutched her horse. Her little cheeks were puffy and pink, and he reached to tickle her affectionately.

"You've told her I have to go early?"

Mary nodded.

"Papa go?" Bel's trembling little voice asked.

Matthew's heart ached with love for her, wondering if perhaps she'd heard them shouting earlier, if she understood anything at all of Mary's worry, and he felt dreadfully sorry. He bent to kiss his daughter, murmuring quietly to her, "Yes, my little darling, but I'll be quite safe. I'm only going to Coventry, see, which doesn't sound too dangerous!"

She smiled a little at the warm reassurance in his voice, and Mary passed her into his arms. Somehow, that in itself seemed a sign that everything was alright between them. They didn't need to say it; they understood. They'd been angry, it was borne of worry, and love. That was all.

"I wanted to say something to you," Mary began quietly, sounding almost shy before him. Matthew smiled affectionately, his cheek resting softly against Mabel's head.

"Oh?" he invited her softly. "And what was your mission, darling?"

"Only, dear, to say that…" A fond smirk broke over her face. "I hope you are going back to France, after all." At last, she thought she understood – well, as much as she could.

Matthew chuckled, taking her offering. "Certainly I am, darling, why wouldn't I?" There was not even the merest trace of bitterness in his tone, now.

"Sure?" Mary teased. "You might have wanted an easy way through the war, here; though I'm afraid I wouldn't think very much of you if you did!"

"Why, don't you want me?" He swayed gently towards her, a playful smirk dancing over his face. Mary drew a shallow breath, her eyes dipping down his body.

"Of course I want you, darling," she breezed. Reaching up to touch his cheek, so reassuringly warm and alive and _Matthew_, she smiled breathlessly. "Very much!"

And they kissed, awkward as it was with Mabel and the distinct swell of Mary's belly between them. But it was sweet, and forgiving, and understanding. They'd talk more, later, another day, sometime… Sometime that was not now, because now they needed to make things right, to seal their understanding and their love, because they _did_ understand; that little else mattered, not today.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I made the decision to leave the Matthew/Robert scene and M/M talking about Edith scene, out - I hope you'll forgive me, but considering the course this chapter ended up on, I just didn't feel they would add muc__h at all, and it felt right to end it here. So that's why, if you were wondering!_

_I do hope you enjoyed it, as always I'd love to know your thoughts - __thank you so much! :)_


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: _Hello, and welcome to another instalment of __Matthew/Mary/Mabel/Baby fluff!_

_As ever, thanks so much for your responses - I'm continually overwhelmed, and I hugely appreciate all your feedback._

_That said, if you'll excuse me a little prelude, I'd like to take a moment to explain kind of my intentions for this fic, and the s2 parallel, as I'm aware it may not be everyone's cup of tea! So I just wanted to explain my thinking._ _Now, I could write through the war with my own take on it, and ideas - but what I really want to do, in this fic, is to explore Fellowes s2 as it would impact M/M in the situation they're in now. I do understand that it takes away some suspense - but, I can promise you that I've got an original twist coming in 2x07/2x08__, and beyond that; as I said, my interest here it to explore the impact of Fellowes' events on ATiL's M/M - as well as the (for me) really fun challenge of trying to rework lines/scenes into a completely changed context!_

_Rest assured, I'm sure I'll tackle the war again in another fic; but for this one, my track is entwined with Fellowes. I'm finding it a challenge, and am immensely enjoying it__ - and I dearly hope you all continue to do so. Anyway, I just wanted to get that out there, so you've a clearer idea of my thinking, as my own sort of disclaimer, I suppose._

_Sorry to spew all that at you - here, have some fluff! :P_ _Thanks so much to EOlivet for the polish, and I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

"Darling, come back – Mabel! You're – Isis!"

Mary watched despairingly as her daughter, giggling loudly, wriggled between the legs of two nurses chased swiftly by an over-excitable Isis. "I'm so sorry…" she muttered, squeezing past the indignant women into the drawing room, which seemed to be disappearing swiftly amid the myriad beds, and cabinets, and trays, and blankets, and nurses, and all the other bits and pieces that were swarming into the Abbey to prepare it for its new role as a convalescent home.

"Oh!" Edith yelped, nearly tripping over them.

"Mary –"

"I know!" Mary sighed at Sybil. Lord, she didn't need telling that this wasn't the best place for them! Glancing across the room, she saw another nurse scowl towards her feet, and Isobel's lips part in a thunderous expression, and – "Mabel Violet Crawley, stop at once!" Mary shouted, getting the discipline in before her mother-in-law could manage it. "Isis! Down!"

With an uncompromising glare, Mary lifted Mabel up onto her hip, holding the girl's little hands to stop them from embracing her as she waved a finger sternly in front of her nose.

"Sow'ry Mama –"

"So you should be! Do you see how many people you are in the way of? Do you know how hurt you might have been? And how would you like me to tell Papa that; that Mabel hurt herself being silly? Hm? Would he be pleased?"

"I on'y –"

"Hush, now."

"…what these men will need is rest, and relaxation!" Violet had resumed her argument with Isobel from the other doorway. "Will that be achieved by mixing ranks, and putting everyone on edge?"

She swept out from the bustle before giving Isobel a chance to counter her.

"Who's to say it wouldn't," Isobel muttered, then; "However, it _certainly_ won't with those two running around causing chaos –"

"No…" Cora appeared at Isobel's side. It was the first thing they'd agreed on all day. They stood together, frowning at Mary with both frustration and concern.

"I am sorry," Mary sighed, having relented to Mabel's trembling chin, finally allowing her to nestle sorrowfully against her mother's chest. "I wanted to see if I could help, only Miss Ludbrook woke up desperately unwell so I didn't want Mabel at home."

"My dear, you'll be no use to man or beast trying to keep a handle on her as well, particularly in your condition."

"Cousin Isobel is right," Cora agreed – her reluctance clear in her tone. Mary lowered her head, shifting Mabel (dear, she was getting heavier now, or did it only seem so?) up a little before distractedly rubbing her belly.

They were both right, she knew. It would've been hard enough to manage one task or the other, to help or to watch Mabel – she couldn't possibly do both! A great weariness suddenly came over her, amplified by the surrounding bustle – noise, fuss, clatter, things, people, everywhere – and she offered very little protest at her mother's suggestion to follow her grandmother to the library and sit down.

She walked in, Mabel toddling beside her, clinging to her hand. Isis was already there, and after a stern, warning look from Mary the two settled relatively quietly into a nearby corner; Mabel carefully arranging the hair of the doll Mary handed to her while Isis nosed happily around.

"Well, my dear," Violet smiled as Mary eased into the chair opposite. "You look worn out!"

"I am," Mary admitted. "I only wish she was, too!" She smiled fondly over at Mabel, finding it impossible to remain angry for long.

"Of course, of course." She smiled proudly and touched Mary's hand briefly in solidarity. "Of course when your father was little, and Rosamund, I had hardly so much to do with them – I do admire your involvement with little Mabel!"

"Things are rather different now, Granny," Mary raised an eyebrow. So different. The difference was Matthew, the war… Though she liked to think that she'd still have endeavoured to be as close to her daughter as possible, she was very aware of the bond she felt through Matthew's absence. Through the understanding that, come any day, Mabel may be all she had left of him. That fact alone changed everything – one she could not escape, however much she didn't like to think of it, not when she saw him so clearly in their darling girl.

"I suppose so," Violet sniffed, and sat back in her chair. "On the topic of Rosamund, I'm glad to have caught you for a moment."

"Oh?"

"Hmm, she seems to have made a gentleman acquaintance in London. Now, Mary, I'm not at all sure about it. His name is Richard Carlisle, do you know him?"

Edith had wandered in. "Sir Richard Carlisle?" she asked, a slight note of scorn in her voice. "The one with all those horrid newspapers?"

"You exaggerate," Mary rolled her eyes. "Sir Richard owns a string of papers, and is quite charming, Granny; Edith and I met him in Cliveden a year or so ago with Aunt Rosamund, if she'd care to remember properly. Aunt Rosamund must have come across him again in London, it'd hardly be surprising."

While her grandmother digested this, Mabel had grown tired of her doll and was now clambering back into Mary's lap, frowning at the large bump of her mother's belly that always seemed so in her way, now. Mary covered her gently prodding little hands with her own, trying to ignore Isis who was also seeking comfort resting her chin on her knee.

"Is he, now? I'm not sure what sort of a gentleman he is. It seems a terribly dodgy business, to me. He's new money, you know."

"So was Uncle Marmaduke," Mary countered, "and what about Matthew? He has neither title nor money, as it stands – and not for many years yet, I hope. At least you think him a gentleman! That's a start, isn't it?"

"Hm." Violet straightened her shoulders defiantly. "Well, I'm going up to London to stay with Rosamund for a day or two; I think we'll have Sir Richard for tea."

"As you like, Granny; just try not to be too cruel." She was distracted from further comment in an effort to stop Mabel from climbing onto Isis's back, the youthful dog seeming quite content to act as pony for the little girl.

* * *

><p>While Miss Ludbrook recovered from her cold, Mary followed orders and relented to stay out of the way at Crawley House with Mabel. On reflection, she wondered if she wasn't better off out of it. Every day, Isobel seemed to come home bearing some new grievance against her mother; she couldn't do this, she couldn't do that, they couldn't possibly allow <em>that<em>, how on earth were they to…

"I'm so sorry, Isobel," Mary straightened suddenly, blinking in the dim, evening light. "I've been so tired. What were you saying?"

Isobel quite understood. "No, dear, I'm sorry. I'm sure that to hear my complaints isn't at all what you want at the end of the day. I'm sure your mother's doing her best." She may have said it, but she certainly didn't mean it; that much was obvious.

"Well." Mary shrugged noncommittally. No, it wasn't what she wanted to hear. But no, she wasn't going to complain. Tension with Isobel, on top of everything else, was hardly what she needed. "Is everything ready, at least, for the patients' arrival tomorrow?"

"I think so, yes! Just about." Isobel brightened, and sat up straighter, eyes lighting with passion and drive. "There's so much we can't do until the men arrive, but we'll get there."

"I'm sure! I will come up tomorrow, provided Miss Ludbrook is quite well. She was much better today. But I'll let you be the judge of that." In some cases, where the health of her daughter was concerned, Mary was quite happy to let Isobel play the nurse.

"We'd appreciate that, dear, but only if you can manage it. Have you heard from Matthew, recently?"

"Not for a week or so." It had been strange, almost; how Matthew had seemed far busier on duty in England than he did for most of the time in France. But however infrequent his letters (and they weren't, not really), at least they no longer had that ever-present undercurrent of despair, or desperation, or regret that his letters from the trenches seemed to carry. Oh, it was only slight – very slight, he tried to be upbeat for her sake as much as for his own sanity – but still, now he was safe, the lightness in his letters was noticeable.

She was glad of it, the next day, as she set about distributing tumblers and water decanters onto the few cabinets in the drawing room. Each bed was gradually being taken up – a man who'd lost a hand, there, another with a patch over his eyes and rippled scarring over his face below, and another who seemed only to sweat and shake terribly – she'd never seen them before, not like this. Sybil had talked of it, and at least here all their wounds were clean, but… In every man she saw Matthew, saw him lying there instead of them, hovering on the edge of her vision like a phantom… and if she did not _know_ he was safe, somewhere, in England, she wasn't sure she could've borne it. Not now, not with Bel, not with Baby on the way. It had shocked her; and she was only glad that, living at Crawley House, she need not get too used to it.

Staring at the clear, sparkling liquid in each decanter in front of her, she tried to shift her thoughts from anything so dark. He was safe, she knew he was safe, he was –

"I hadn't cast you as Florence Nightingale," a dearly familiar voice murmured softly behind her.

She gasped, straightened, felt her heart pounding as his hands slipped around her waist to clasp over her belly, and she wrapped her arms over his, leaning back into the solid, comforting warmth of his body. She felt his laugh reverberate in his chest, as he pressed a fond kiss to her cheek. "Hello, my darling."

Just for a moment, she twisted and kissed him, waiting for her pulse to settle again.

"You startled me," she chided him affectionately. "When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago. I've been home and seen Bel; I've only a couple of hours before Strutt wants me back. We're starting on the camps in the northern counties tomorrow, and he remembered you were close. Darling, should you be lifting those?"

"I'm quite sure I can manage, dear," she insisted, picking another two up and moving to put them down. "I must do _something_ useful, to recompense for Bel causing such a fuss with Isis earlier in the week…"

"Yes, I heard," Matthew laughed, taking a moment to watch her before set about the task himself. "Well, I don't have long – let me help you, at least, and then we can talk."

"Won't we see something of you?" Mary paused, trying not to sound disappointed. For goodness' sake, only moments ago she hadn't expected to see him at all! But now that he _was_ here… To let him go again, so soon, seemed simply unthinkable.

"Actually darling, I thought my general should come here – it's exactly the sort of thing people like to read about –" He trailed off at his mother's shout, ordering Sybil to another duty. "Dear Mother, she does love a bit of authority. I suppose she's driving Cousin Cora mad…"

Mary smiled, but her eyes were dulled. "No names, no pack drill," she teased, drawing her finger across her lips, then going to pick up another tray.

"Let me," Matthew took it from her. "Is everything – alright, darling? Mother's not making things difficult?"

"No, no," Mary pressed her hands to the small of her back while Matthew put the tray down in its place. "It's tiresome, but I'm quite sure they're only as bad as each other. Anyway," she curled her arms around his waist, "Baby is a good excuse to stop listening." She smiled conspiratorially, and Matthew kissed her nose.

"That said, my darling, don't you think you're due a break for a minute or two?"

"I suppose," Mary's lips curled into a sly, indulgent smile. "You know me, darling; I've not many qualms about leaving the moral high ground to Sybil…"

"Glad to hear it."

Matthew's voice dropped to a low murmur, and Mary followed him with little resistance through into the smoking room, to the red staircase where he pulled her under the curve of the stair… and she fell against him, opening her mouth to him with no encouragement as he kissed her, and held her, sighing at the sweet, familiar pleasure of his wife in his arms. He never would, never _could_ tire of this… Of her warmth, her scent, her little murmurs and gasps in response to him, then as his tongue touched hers and she shivered, arms tightening around his neck… A thrill coursed through him at their seclusion amidst the bustle; this stolen, private moment that was purely their own.

"Is this what you had in mind, darling," Mary eventually gasped, when they finally paused for air, "when you said 'talk'?"

"What do you think," he grinned, trailing kisses down her neck. He felt their child shift against his hand, and he chuckled. "Oh, Mary. I've missed you," he said deeply, pulling back and gazing into the darkness of her eyes. "It's been harder, I think – being so close, comparatively, but – not here."

"You're here now, darling," she smiled, caressing his cheek tenderly with her thumb. The baby shifted again, kicked, and Mary laughed at Matthew's darling expression of wonder. "I'm not the only one glad of it, I think!"

"No," he smiled fondly, and kissed her cheek again. "Any more suggestions for a name?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The topic came up in most of their letters, now, with the baby due in just under two months.

"Hundreds," Mary sighed. "Only none of them quite right! I know we're settled with Patrick, if it's a boy – but I simply can't decide, otherwise. Eleanor? Penelope? Lucy?"

"Mm, they're nice," Matthew nodded, pursing his lips. "An old associate I knew in London had a daughter with a pretty name… Lavinia, I think it was."

Mary turned her nose up. "Miss Lavinia Crawley? At least be sensible, darling!" she scoffed.

Matthew's lips parted to defend himself, but was denied the opportunity as Mary kissed him again, so decidedly that he swayed back… pulling her against him as sense melted into passion.

* * *

><p>For Matthew's general to visit was widely deemed an excellent idea, and arrangements were swiftly made for it as the Abbey's new role settled into routine. Violet had returned from London with Rosamund in tow, who tentatively suggested that Sir Richard might be invited for the event.<p>

"Are you sure?" Robert worried. "A hawker of newspaper scandal… I don't know."

"Well, Matthew said it's the sort of thing people like to read about," Mary pointed out. "The newspapers can't _all_ be gossip and slander, surely!"

"Perhaps he's trying to branch out a little," Violet chuckled to herself.

"He's quite harmless, I assure you," Rosamund insisted. "You'd think he's ruthless, but he's gentle as a lamb, really."

"Only if you're on the right side of him, no doubt," Edith remained unconvinced.

"And why wouldn't we be?" Isobel beamed. "I don't see what harm could come of it – there's only work to be proud of, here."

"Hear, hear!" Sybil chimed.

"Perhaps you're right." Cora looked unsure, but couldn't argue with that sentiment. They _had_ worked hard, all of them. Perhaps some recognition wouldn't be so bad.

And so it was settled.

* * *

><p>On the afternoon that the party was due, the family and servants fanned out on the drive. The sun shone brightly, everything was on high alert. Sir Richard was proving a charming and unobtrusive guest, much to Robert and Cora's relief. He'd remembered Mary, of course, congratulated her on her situation, and looked around the house taking notes with interest and diligence, even making sure to talk to the staff. All in all, he proclaimed, it was a house and hospital of which they should be very proud.<p>

Isobel looked sideways, and leaned over to Mary.

"Are you sure it's such a good idea for Bel to be here?"

"I can't say," Mary whispered back, "but Matthew asked for her to be here. Apparently General Strutt is curious."

"Oh," Isobel nodded, clearly unsure. Mary smiled ruefully; Isobel had been fussing all day, sniping with her mother, both fiercely determined that nothing should be left to chance. Clearly, Mabel's excitable behaviour was something consigned to chance.

She glanced down. Mabel stood quietly, staring at her gleaming, polished shoes. Mary smiled fondly. The old little horse from Matthew, well worn now, remained Mabel's best distraction as she clutched it lovingly, her other hand stretching up to clasp Mary's tightly.

Mary had thought it wouldn't last long, only praying that she'd be content until the general arrived… Alas, no. As soon as the crunch of tyres on gravel neared, Mabel decided to replicate it with her shoes, aiming to kick up a scuff before Mary swept her up, tutting softly.

"Now, darling, this is very important for Papa, and for Grandmama and Grandpa… And you know how hard Granny Bel has been working, so don't spoil things now, will you?" she whispered against Mabel's fair, curly hair, decked with neat ribbons.

Mabel solemnly shook her head. "Won't Mama." She looked quite put out to have been picked up, and Mary smiled fondly at her little scowl. The car finally pulled up. Mabel spotted her father, and her face lit up, squirming eagerly in Mary's arms, who pressed an affectionate kiss to the top of her head, shushing her quietly. Her heart fluttered when Matthew stepped out of the car, the new gold braid on his uniform only adding to his handsome stature. She settled Mabel more comfortably on her hip, and pressed her hand to her belly, blowing out a gentle breath as the baby seemed to sense her excitement and shifted restlessly. It wasn't helped by Matthew's sly glance in her direction on his way to the door.

She waited, while he introduced her parents, and Doctor Clarkson; all well met by the General.

"And I'm Captain Crawley's mother," Isobel stepped proudly forward, claiming her position in the party. Mary grinned fondly at Matthew's mildly despairing expression, quickly dropped when General Strutt turned in their direction.

"…makes a changed from the craggy-faced warriors I'm usually subjected to! Now then, Crawley, and this must be your charming wife?"

"Ah, yes," Matthew smiled proudly at Mary, who dutifully stepped forwards. Mabel waved. "My wife, Lady Mary, and our daughter, Miss Mabel Crawley."

"Splendid, splendid," Strutt beamed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Mary, after hearing so much about you from Matthew here."

"Nice things, I hope!" Mary laughed delicately.

Matthew grinned fondly. "What else would he hear from me, darling?"

"And – Mabel – how old is she?"

Mabel peered curiously at the strange man looking at her, chewing comfortingly on her horse.

"Bel two," she said, remembering her mother telling her. Matthew beamed with pride, and Mabel looked between them, thoughtfully. "Not spoil," she declared.

General Strutt laughed heartily. "Well, what a pleasure! Thank you –" he turned back to Cora, who gestured for him to follow them inside as they got started.

"I should go," Matthew said fondly. "If only to keep our respective mothers apart…"

"Crawley?"

Mary smiled encouragingly, and watched him walk in, following behind with the rest of the family.

The tour went well, all told, despite Isobel's worry – the only sticky moment occurring when Mabel broke free from Mary, and clung steadfastly to Matthew's leg in the drawing room.

"Go back to Mama," he said softly, stroking over her hair and trying to ignore the amused grin of the general. Mabel shook her head fiercely. No-one quite seemed to want to be the one to tear the little girl from her father; so Matthew simply stood for a while, really quite awkwardly, while everyone pretended it was quite normal.

Then Mabel started tugging at the bottom of his jacket, unable to understand why Matthew wasn't picking her up as he normally did, or showering her with his usual affection. Matthew carried on stroking her hair distractedly, trying to listen instead to Captain Smiley, as Strutt had asked him to.

Having had quite enough of being ignored, Mabel then screamed. "Darling!" Matthew hissed softly under his breath, seeing Mary's groan and both their mothers' horror in the same instant that he relented, and swept her up. "I'm so terribly sorry, do forgive me," he effused to the general, striding across the room and placing Mabel firmly back in Mary's arms. Mabel screamed louder, clinging to his lapels.

Grimacing, Matthew prised her fingers free and looked desperately at Mary, who nodded and rushed out, Mabel's bad-tempered screams echoing down the corridor. Isobel's face was thunder; more so when she noticed a grinning Sir Richard scribble in his notebook.

"Not to worry, Crawley," General Strutt good-naturedly assured Matthew, who was blushing deeply. "These things happen!" No-one else seemed quite convinced.

Aside from that, then, everything ran smoothly. Once he was changed for dinner, Matthew went down to the small library to find Mary, who'd taken a thoroughly chastened Mabel home and to bed. She made her excuses to Rosamund and Sir Richard, and went to him.

"I'm so sorry," she shook her head, running her hands appreciatively down his arms as she glanced over his mess uniform. "Dear Mabel. I hope the general wasn't too horrified. Or your poor mother!"

Matthew kissed her cheek. "General Strutt found it terribly amusing, thank God. And Mother will get over it," he smiled.

"I hope so!" Mary leaned closer, and whispered, "So, what do you think of Sir Richard?"

"Pretty unobtrusive, which I suppose is a good thing," Matthew murmured. "It was a good idea to have him here; Strutt's very impressed, and it'll reflect well on the army."

"Well, that's something, then!"

General Strutt appeared, then, with Robert and Cora, and after a few minutes they went in to dinner which passed without incident. Mary and Matthew talked quietly, soberly – it having dawned on them properly now that this might be their last time together before Matthew left once more. The tour in England was drawing to a close, and… well, on Matthew's request, Strutt had promised his return to France. Every so often Matthew had wondered whether it was foolish of him, swaying between resolve for his duty and his dedication to his family, both calls pulling him apart. What was worse, he now realised that if he weren't to get the chance of a little leave again before they went… He swallowed heavily, and put down his fork.

"Darling?" Mary whispered.

"Mary, I –" He had to quiet while General Strutt made a round of toasts – to Edith, of all people! – and smiled politely as their glasses clinked. Mary fixed him again with a worried eye, and Matthew moistened his dry lips, taking a breath. "It doesn't matter, darling." It seemed too much; he could hardly bear to think it himself.

Mary tried to press him, but dinner was over, and Matthew was summoned off again with Strutt to prepare for their departure.

"Is Matthew alright?" Rosamund appeared by her side, frowning gently. "He looked a bit peaky at the end of dinner."

"I don't know," Mary said quietly. He wasn't; that much was obvious, but it had come on suddenly and he wouldn't say.

"Well, I hope so. And you're alright, my dear?" She glanced pointedly at Mary, whose hands were unconsciously covering her belly protectively.

"Yes, quite," Mary answered, her tone dismissive as Matthew came back in.

"The general's just about to leave, darling, I'm afraid he doesn't have time to come in here." He sounded a little breathless, distracted.

Mary nodded. "I hope it's all been a success! And I do hope Bel didn't spoil things, or embarrass you, dear." He'd brushed it off before, but – perhaps that was it; at the mention of her he seemed to blanch. But he was leaving. The general was leaving, so Matthew was leaving. Leaving her, again. She took his hand without thinking.

"Oh… Not at all, no." He smiled weakly. "Dear, you all seem convinced her behaviour was some horrid stain upon the visit."

"No, darling! Mary insisted. "If you say so, I'm sure he found it quite charming – and so did Sir Richard, so naturally if the incident is to be reported, she'll seem quite perfect in his recount."

It raised a little chuckle, at least. "What a testimonial."

"Everyone thinks she's an angel, darling – don't they, Aunt Rosamund?"

"Quite perfect," Rosamund smiled brightly. "No-one could fail to think so, my dear."

Matthew smiled, and turned as Rosamund did, to leave.

"Matthew –" Mary caught his arm. He turned, and blinked; she could feel him almost trembling through his jacket. "We're not going outside until you've told me what's wrong."

It took Matthew several moments to marshal himself. He lowered his head, and took Mary's hands, squeezing them fondly, then stepped forwards and placed his hands on her belly, as if to connect the three of them. Him, her, their new child… Only darling Mabel, at home.

"It's…" He swallowed, not quite meeting her eyes for a moment; and when he did, they glistened with unshed tears. "Darling, if I don't see you again before I have to go back… I can't bear how I left Bel." His voice shook, and he glanced desperately at Mary. To think that his darling girl's last memory of him would be _that_, him pushing her away from him, _refusing_ to dote on her because he hadn't thought it proper… God, what an absolute fool he was.

"Oh. Oh, darling," Mary clasped his face and pressed a kiss to his lips, looking him surely in the eye. His admission sent an ache of love spearing through her heart, through her very soul, it felt. "You mustn't think that. You mustn't. You know how she loves you, darling – how she will always love you, whatever happens." How it hurt to be thinking like this again!

"But she'll remember –"

"She'll remember," Mary cut him off, "all the times that you have held her, read to her, played with her – she will remember all that, darling; not this once."

"I'll remember, Mary."

Mary squeezed her eyes shut, gasping for breath. The worst thing was that she understood him entirely, because she knew – though she could hardly imagine it – that she would feel the same. However painful it was to admit, there was no way to sugar-coat it.

"Then," she whispered fiercely, "you will simply have to come back and make some new memories. That's it, darling."

Matthew forced a smile, nodded, and kissed her. He knew she was right. There was nothing; well, that was why he felt about as low as he ever had during the war.

"I know," he murmured, pulling her close for a moment. They had to leave, he knew. "Darling, make her remember me well?"

"You know I will," Mary bit back a sob as the extent of his heartbreak dawned on her, and she kissed him again, reassuring him through it. How could he doubt the surety of her kiss?

But their time was up, and he had to leave. He scrubbed his hands over his face, picked up his hat in the hall, and went out – thank God for the sunshine, to hide his eyes as he squinted.

Robert caught him, asking about William. Yes, it seemed a good idea to Matthew, though of course he couldn't promise to keep him safe. If he'd learnt that trick, assured safety – how different his life would be! Robert was distracted then – his new valet, poor soul – and Matthew took his last chance for a word with Mary.

"Darling," he took her hand. "Be safe. All of you," he smiled fondly, glancing down, and lifted her hand to his lips. He couldn't leave her sad; not again. She might know it, well she might; but he wasn't going to show it. Not this time. It wasn't enough, and he kissed her cheek, then so painfully briefly, her lips, ignoring whoever of their family beside them might watch, or care.

"You too," she whispered, braving him a smile. It was enough.

With one last squeeze of her hand, one last smile, he turned away. He didn't look back as he got into the car. Mary's eyes closed, then opened at the sound of the engine. In her heart, she believed he'd come back – he had to, she had to believe it. She watched the car go, and at the last moment he turned his head – there, that piercing, captivating blue of his eyes, of their daughter's eyes – and he was gone.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _There we are! Thanks so much for reading__, and I hope you enjoyed it - your reviews are tremendously encouraging, and are always appreciated! Until next time. Thank you! :)_


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: _Another midweek offering, just now, because I felt there needed to be this chapter between 2x03 and 2x04 - so we're not quite at 2x04 proper, yet!_

_Thanks so much for your kind reviews and comments - they're really very humbling. And my usual thanks, of course, to EOlivet for her enthusiasm and assistance! _

_This time, with no further ado, I shall simply let you get on and enjoy it! :D_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

When Lord Grantham walked into the sectioned off library, feeling the heat already bathing through the windows from the early morning sun, he was surprised to see his wife already there.

"You're up early, dear. You could've joined us for breakfast!" He placed an affectionate kiss on her cheek as he walked past to the small settee, settling down and folding out his newspaper.

"I couldn't sleep, darling – not a wink. I don't think I could've eaten anything either – not until we know."

He glanced up. "No, I thought not." Before he could ask any more, his freshly ironed newspaper crumpled into his lap as an excitable Mabel scrambled over it.

"Goo' morning, Grandpa!" she cried, scrunching her nose as he patted her shoulder, oblivious to his expression of fond exasperation. They were all tired – well, besides Mabel, clearly. She loved these rare chances to stay at the Abbey for a night – it was so much bigger than home!

"Good morning, Mabel," he chuckled. "Did you have a good night's sleep?"

"Yes! Thank you," she carefully said, with a little frown, remembering how Mama and Miss Ludbrook would always say 'thank you' very pointedly when answering things like that. Her Grandpa smiled, which she took as approval, grinning back at him before twisting and settling into his lap. Thankfully, she seemed happy enough to sit and stare at his newspaper as he read, occasionally pointing to interesting pictures with cleanly scrubbed hands, listening intently to all that he told her.

It was only then that he wondered why Cora should be in here all – so often, now, she was locked in her morning room, under the claim of hospital business – it was difficult, but he might've thought especially now, she'd have wanted to keep busy. Instead, she was simply sitting with an anxious air; reading but not really reading, fiddling with the pages, glancing at the door every so often.

"Well," she explained when he asked, "I wanted to rather be near the telephone…" Robert nodded, understanding her. Of course, they were all anxious.

"We'll hear something soon, my dear, I'm sure."

"From Mama?" Mabel twisted round, looking up into Robert's serious face.

His lips parted to answer, but as Edith wandered in then, he simply nodded, and smiled reassuringly. Mabel didn't know _what_ they meant to hear from Mama, only they'd talked about her an awful lot, and they hadn't told her yet when Mama was going to come for her.

"Is there any word from Cousin Isobel, yet?" Edith asked

"No," Cora shook her head. "Though why _she_ must remain there, I don't know, while I am forbidden from my own daughter's bedside-"

"You know perfectly well that _Mary_ wanted you to look after Mabel here, darling, until it's all over," Robert sighed, folding his paper. Cora frowned.

"And Cousin Isobel _is_ a nurse, Mama – I think Mary would rather someone she knows –"

"I don't know how much _choice_ Mary will have been given in the –"

"I think we can be quite sure Mary wouldn't have her there if she didn't!" Edith tried, not so much out of defence for her sister than an equal tiredness of the constant bickering between their mother and Isobel.

"Darling," Robert leaned forward – much to Mabel's chagrin, who promptly slid off and went to inspect Edith's dress, instead – and picked up Cora's hand gently. "Can't you be glad for one day that Cousin Isobel isn't causing you bother here, at least? There's more important things to think of."

"Of course you're right, darling," she squeezed his hand back, a gesture of apology. Only Isobel seemed to invade everything – it wasn't enough that she had lost her daughter to her (oh, she knew it wasn't like that really, but it felt like it sometimes), that she must now spend her every waking minute making the business of _their_ house her own business as if she were the only one capable, but now that she should also claim such a role at such a moment of maternal intimacy – it was hard not to feel it. She must feel equal importance, she supposed, in having the task of caring for Mabel while it all went on – and it was _right_ that that should be so – but sitting here, waiting for the telephone, did feel so terribly removed, no matter how great Mabel's delightful distraction was.

"Well," Edith said, bending down to pat-a-cake with Mabel for a moment or two. "I promised I'd find some Byron for Major Walden. You'll tell me when you hear? Sybil's dying to know, too."

"We will," Robert promised, watching with pride as his daughter smiled and went behind the screen, disappearing into the noise and bustle of the officer's recreation area.

When the phone finally rang, just before luncheon, the shrill sound seemed to shatter the silence of waiting, waiting… since early the previous morning, when it had rung to summon them to action. All that day, all the sleepless night, all the anxious morning, they'd waited, the silence of the telephone hanging over them like a weight, that now shattered into expectation.

Breathless, Cora rose to her feet and paced in small, nervous steps; Mabel thinking it was a game and following behind her with serious concentration.

"Beg pardon, my Lord; that was Mrs. Crawley on the telephone," Carson said very calmly.

"Yes, Carson; well?" Robert pressed anxiously. Luckily, with so many years of Carson's service, he could read the glint in the butler's eye quite easily; though this did remarkably little to settle their impatience. Cora's hands were clasped tightly together, and Mabel stood calmly beside, waiting to hear what all the fuss was about.

Carson cleared his throat. "Mrs. Crawley wished to report that Lady Mary is quite well – as is the little one." A smile broke across his face.

"Oh, thank goodness!" All the tension suddenly flooded from Cora's body and she sank back down into her chair, narrowly missing Mabel.

"And…?" Robert pressed again, sitting forward slightly. Was it too much to hope that Carson's delay – in what he knew was the key thing – was a sign for hope?

"The child is a – a little girl, your Lordship. Miss Catherine Eleanor."

"Damn."

"Robert!"

The disappointment had slipped out under his breath before he could stop it; though he rightly felt sorry for it at Cora's expression. He hadn't meant it – of course he was delighted! – of course he was. Mabel had been such a joy to them, to all of them, through these years so far. For Mary and Matthew to have been blessed with a second child, no matter the sex, was wondrous enough; but – damn, wouldn't it make things easier if it were a boy! No-one liked to think of it, of course they didn't – least of all, him! – but the awful truth was that Matthew's future _wasn't_ certain. No matter how they all tried to pretend that everything was fine, Robert was painfully aware that at any time, Matthew's time might run out… He wouldn't say that he could rest _easier_, if there were an heir, but – oh, how dearly he would love to know that the estate was secure through Matthew, and his own daughter.

Cora, however, riled all the more against this thinking; feeling instead an overbearing and immediate love for little Catherine. She must take Mabel and go to see them at the earliest. Oh, she understood Robert's reaction, alright. Perhaps better than anyone she understood it; the keen pain of disappointment. But beyond that, she had felt that keen pain of disappointment in herself, the feeling of failure, of having somehow let everyone down – _yes_ it would be better if the child were a boy, they all knew that – Mary knew that, of course she did. But she would _not_ allow Mary to feel as she had, once, in any way. Any child was a blessing, and Cora was going to honour that.

In silent protest to Robert, Cora took Mabel onto her lap and told the little girl that she now had a baby sister – just like Aunt Edith was to Mama, and Aunt Sybil. And how Mabel must love her, for Mabel knew what it was like to grow up and could be such a help to her, and to Mama, and how she would enjoy playing with her. Mabel listened, and diligently nodded, and wondered what could this sister be… But Mama would not have such a big bump in her belly now, Grandmama seemed to tell her; so that was something at least.

Robert understood his wife – and her gesture – perfectly, as he knew she understood him. And, feeling rightly ashamed of his own reaction, went to perch by her side to tell Mabel how wonderful it all was and what a lucky girl she was.

* * *

><p><em>19th August 1917<em>

_Darling Matthew,_

_Yes, yes, we are all very well! All of us, my dear. Catherine is so precious – I know you love her already, but you must even more to see her! It's almost strange, for there to be a baby in the house again. Only it's not quite so daunting, this time! And it's so welcome, Matthew. You mustn't thank me, darling – if either of us, it should be I thanking you! – but it is our joy, our child, our daughter. And so our gratitude must be shared, I think. We should not be grateful to each other, but to our girls for being in our lives and whatever Lord there is for blessing us with them._

_Of course you want to know what she is like – I shall do very poorly, but I will try! She's delicate, darling; so delicate. And darker than Bel ever was, though only a little. Her eyes are a very clear blue, very like yours of course; though in shape perhaps more mine. She's very dainty, which surprises your mother as she was a little late – but there is something already in her features that is sharp, but very pretty. Darling Mabel is of course fascinated! _

_We're so very, very lucky, Matthew. I can hardly believe how lucky! You know the only thing that could improve. The christening is fixed for next week, and I'll be sure to send you a photograph soon after that. _

_With the dearest love from myself, Mabel and Catherine,  
>Your Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>30th September 1917<em>

_My darling Mary,_

_This evening there is the most beautiful sunset. As I write to you it streams through the open doorway, all purples and pinks and gold, and touches my photograph of you all. And somehow it lends a quality to it that my little lamp can't, or even the midday sun; a colour and life that reflects your beauty with more depth and truth than even the very best camera would ever be able to capture. But more than that, darling, I wonder if the same sunset shines through your windows. It's always a comfort to know that whatever else is out here – that doesn't fit with such beauty – the same sky, the same sun, passes over you. You'll forgive me for such a display of words, darling, but when it's otherwise so quiet I can't help but think of these things – and I want to, for you're a far dearer thought than any of this._

_Please don't think such of your father, darling. There's no denying he loves Bel dearly, and from your accounts he must surely love Catherine, just as he loves you and both your sisters. We can't help these things, my dear, none of us can. If he does feel it, it is at least understandable – we can't deny that, my darling. But you must believe that it can't in the slightest impact his affection for our girls. And perhaps to lack an heir is no bad thing – for that brought me to you, remember? It doesn't matter what happens, darling; all that matters to you or I or anyone is that we have two beautiful daughters, who are the dearest children there could be. _

_My love to you all,  
>Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>10th November 1917<em>

_My dear Matthew,_

_I'm so sorry the weather has turned again. Well, I'll hope that by the time this reaches you, your situation will have improved. I simply can't imagine it – how terrible for that poor boy you mentioned. If the war alone were not enough! It doesn't surprise me that William is coping well through it. Who'd have thought a waterlogged field on a farm would ever provide good practise for such a circumstance! I'm glad, though, and that you can be a comfort to each other. Mama tells me that they all at the Abbey send their love to him; so do please tell him._

_Mabel is quite used to Catherine now, I think. Finally she's settling to her role as big sister – you can only imagine what a relief that is! Now that she's stopped being put out by the division of affection (though I wish she could understand that it's not a division, but a multiplication of it!), she's assumed for herself quite the responsibility. Darling Catherine loves to lie and watch her play with her dolls, and Bel takes great pleasure in putting on a show for her – though I can't understand it, but I'm not sure that matters to them! Only this week we all visited the Abbey, and Mabel of course wanted to show Catherine how much fun to have with Isis… Now even I'll admit I don't think she's quite ready for that, with all the best intention in the world! So that was a little setback, but it was very soon forgot with a sugar-mouse and a stroll through the leaves that still scatter the ground._

_It'd amuse you, I'm sure, to see the continuing friction between your mother and Mama. I find I must laugh, there's nought else to do – I only wish they could know how ridiculous they appear! But I won't bother you with that._

_Be safe, my dear Matthew._

_With love from us all,  
>Mary<em>

* * *

><p><em>19th December 1917<em>

_To my darling girls,_

_I do hope that this reaches you just in time for Christmas. But whether it does, or not, I wish that you all have the happiest time. We've so much to be thankful for, and to be joyful about – our health, and our family; and really what else matters? A bit of warmth would be nice; but I can think of you for that, my darling Mary. I miss you – so terribly. But enough of that; Mason and I will have quite the cheerful time; at least this frost is preferable to the mud!_

_Now, darling, I know my gift is very inadequate; but I hope you will like it. There's a chap among the men who, it happens, is quite the fine artist. I hadn't a clue of it myself until one morning after I'd done a sentry turn with him, and he presented me with this – well, I can't tell you how strange it was, to look at a page and see myself in all this! So darling, you can look at it and know that at the very moment it depicts, I was thinking of you – I know that with absolute certainty, for it's only the thought of you that gets me through those long duties in the darkness._

_But I hope the girls will like their gifts, too; small as they are. Please give both of them a kiss from me along with them – the biggest, fondest kiss you can muster, my darling. I must close – have a splendid day, and be careful to keep Catherine a safe distance from the tree – though I imagine Bel could take care of that! _

_I cannot tell you, Mary – quite simply there aren't the words to express – how very much I love you. Have a blessed and merry Christmas, my darling girl. All of you._

_With all the love that I possess,  
>Your husband, Matthew<em>

* * *

><p><em>24th January 1918<em>

_Dearest Matthew,_

_I can't say how I've longed for your letter so that I can respond! Oh, my darling. I shan't say much on it, for you've enough to bear – but my dear, our mothers grow more unbearable to each other by the day. Your mother comes home all in an outrage, and if I call for tea it'd be all I'd hear from Mama – thank goodness the girls can distract them from it, but I don't know how much longer things can continue. One of them must snap, I think… You'd know just the right thing to say, darling; so if it wouldn't trouble you to, please would you mention it when you next write to your mother?_

_I'm sorry to have opened with such a dreary note! On a happier one, I went into the nursery yesterday afternoon, and overheard the dearest thing. I've told you dear Bel is quite the chatterbox, now, and she does like to tell Catherine all sorts of things, as though she can explain them properly. I don't know how she managed it, darling – climbed, I suppose, I must ask Miss Ludbrook to move the crib further from the shelf – she'd brought down your photograph and was telling Catherine all about you. If you had any doubt of it, still, dear Matthew – I hope that might lay it to rest. She loves you so much, and wishes so dearly you were home; as do we all._

_Oh; the paperwork (whatever of it needed to be done; you'd understand it better than me, I'm sure) finally went through and Evelyn Napier arrived here last week. He's not dreadfully injured, and in good spirits – he's quite happy to be out of it, really. _

_Darling Matthew. You know we think of you constantly, and the terrible hardships you must be facing. I don't say it enough, but – how brave you are, and what good fortune for those you command to have you as an officer. You are the very best of men, dearest, and we love you so very much._

_Be safe, with our prayers._

_Your loving and affectionate wife,  
>Mary<em>

Smiling fondly, Matthew finished reading the letter, and then cast his eyes over it again. The usual warmth he felt from her deeply felt words spread through him, a protest against the chill of the January air through his heavy coat. Their daughters; how precious they were! He was the luckiest of men, that was the truth, and with any luck he'd be with them again in only a few days time.

But there wasn't the time for poring over it now, and he put it down on the table ready to read in good time.

"No we don't need anyone with us," he assured Mason. "The Sergeant knows what we're doing."

"But what are we patrolling _for_?" the young man asked, as Matthew gathered the little dog into his pocket. Questions, questions, he was always so full of questions! Matthew liked it, even though he teased him for it.

The two men made their way through the trench; dry, now, and dusty. Cold, though, damned cold. At least a little walkabout might warm them up.

"Has Mary set a date, then, on the impending explosion?" Mason said jovially. It wasn't the first time, he knew, that Captain Crawley's wife had expressed concern over their mothers.

Matthew chuckled. "She doesn't say! I think she's hoping the war will be over soon; then the convalescents and the hospital – and my mother – will be out of the Abbey, and it can all blow over. Among other blessings, of course." He thought wistfully of that day – oh, he didn't often allow himself to, but sometimes it was nice to indulge – when it _would_ be over, and he _would_ be home, to stay, with his dear family at last. His heart was immeasurably lighter that Bel had apparently forgiven, or forgotten (more likely, in truth) his neglect at the general's visit, something that had plagued his thoughts and dreams in the months since.

"She could've waited till she saw you, to mention it." Mason still didn't quite understand these things. Letters were to cheer them up, to boost them – Daisy's were always so light, so full of life, filled with tales of distraction – all pleasantness, because that was what he wanted to hear. It was only a few days to wait, surely worrying over squabbling mothers (even if one of those were the Countess of Grantham!) could've waited?

"She doesn't know I'm due back," Matthew smiled conspiratorially back at him. "Have you warned Daisy? Or will it be a surprise?"

"No, I've told her I'm coming to Downton first – I've not mentioned you, so she shouldn't neither. Then I'll visit me dad and go back to see her for a day at the end."

Matthew nodded, and took a deep lungful of air. "Just think. Fresh Yorkshire air, and dearly missed family." Even the thought made him beam.

"Alright for some of us, eh, Sir?"

"And we'd never swap it, would we?"

"No," Mason smiled. "We'd never swap."

They pushed on through the trench, till they reached a point where they clambered up behind cover into churned fields, over which they crept, staying low.

Just this patrol, Matthew thought. Just this one more to get through… then home.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Well, there you have it; thank you so much for reading! I do hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always very welcome and appreciated! :)_


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: _Happy Monday! __Ahhh, 2x04. THAT SCENE. *sob*_

_Thank you so, so much for all your continued support with this fic. I'm putting my heart and soul into it, and you're all absolutely wonderful and so, so encouraging. Thank you! And my deepest gratitude to EOlivet for her continual enthusiasm, and for putting my mind at ease so many times!_

_So. ATiL's 2x04. Grab a box of tissues and settle yourself down for a bumper-length edition. __I hope you'll enjoy it!_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Twenty-One<span>**

"Well, Mabel, say hello," Mary encouraged the little girl, who was (for the moment) standing calmly beside her chair, leaning protectively over her lap to make sure Catherine's shawl was still in place.

Turning from her sister, Mabel took a deep breath and smiled.

"Hello Mr. Nap'er!"

"Hello there, Miss Crawley!" The man seated in front of them smiled very warmly back. He looked friendly, but his voice had an odd wheeze to it… Mabel decided that she liked him, though, especially when she twisted and saw her Mama beaming.

Evelyn looked through bleary eyes between both daughters and their mother, taking in their happy glow, and the likeness between them. Mabel was definitely Crawley's girl, there was no doubting that; and the baby's delicate features already hinted at Mary's sharper beauty. "And this must be Catherine… You must be ever so proud," he said to Mary.

"Very, thank you. I'm so glad you're able to meet them at last – I only wish it were under better circumstances than this!" At least, she thought, her old friend's wounds were not so visually disconcerting – she didn't quite understand it, but gas had damaged his lungs, and his vision a little (not permanently, thank goodness). While it was really impossible to keep the girls completely sheltered from those men with missing limbs, she was concerned about the effect on their precious young minds.

"Ah, well," he rasped, reaching for a sip of water. "It's not all bad, is it? I'm all out of danger, can't complain – jolly glad to have done my bit, at least, though!"

"Of course," Mary chuckled.

"And how's Captain Crawley getting along?"

"Oh, alright I think," she lowered her head wistfully, smoothing over Catherine's dress, smiling as tiny hands followed her own, plucking at the soft cotton. "You know our old footman, William, is with him now. He doesn't say much about what goes on – well, you understand that of course – but yes, for the most part I think he – well, he gets by."

"I'll bet he does. You must miss him."

"I do. Very much." Glancing back up at Evelyn, she smiled and pushed all that to the back of her mind. To miss Matthew was simply a constant in her life – as constant and as natural as breathing, as the beat of her heart, the blink of her eye – a perpetual thread of feeling entwined with her love for him, and the girls, that was simply such a part of her that she didn't think about it so often. She couldn't possibly, it would be too much! She shrugged. "But he writes often. Anyway! I hope you find you're being well looked after, so far?"

Evelyn grinned good-naturedly. "Very well, thank you." They hadn't gotten far into their pleasantries before the topic of the warring mothers had surfaced. "I think Lady Grantham's done a splendid job opening up her home like this – _as_ has Mrs. Crawley in her support of the nursing staff, I gather…" He trailed into a difficult, gasping cough while Mary laughed and looked away. He took another sip of water and cleared his throat. "I saw the write-up of General Strutt's visit in the newspaper; that was a good idea!" It was just after he'd been wounded, and had been a very pleasant distraction – particularly the anecdote about little Mabel; which he could very clearly imagine now that he looked at her, playing fondly with Mary's fingers to amuse herself.

"Ah, Sir Richard's – he's a friend of Aunt Rosamund's. Yes, I think there may be some advantages to such an acquaintance in the family –"

Before Mary could say any more, Isobel bustled over, looking more agitated than Mary had perhaps ever seen her. "Dear, Isobel, what is it?" she asked, rocking a restless Catherine gently on her lap.

"Nothing, my dear –" Isobel shook her head over the blatant lie. "Well, it seems Doctor Clarkson has already been round this morning – so there's nothing left for me to do, here. I'm going to go home. Hello, Mr. Napier," she added in afterthought.

"Oh. Well, I'll come too, then," Mary sighed, bearing Catherine gently up in her arms where the babe clutched at her blouse collar. "Evelyn, it was so good to see you – I'm so glad you're here. I'll visit again, of course. Now, Bel, what do you say to Mr. Napier?"

"Goodbye, Mr. Nap'er. So good to see you," Mabel echoed dutifully, with a small wave as she hoisted up Catherine's moses-basket, doing her best to help Mama.

Evelyn chuckled, and bid the small family goodbye, watching them trail out of the library - Mrs. Crawley bustling ahead, Mary following slowly with Mabel, doing her best as the basket bumped awkwardly against her legs (though of course she refused any help).

When they reached the hall, as Isobel ordered the car, Edith swept through the tables, letters and packages in hand, and called after them.

"Mary? Hello, Bel, good morning – Mary, you know the men are arranging that concert – they're so anxious for us both to be in it, or there'll be no girls at all. Please say you will?"

"Do I have to?" Mary arched an eyebrow. As if she didn't have enough to manage! Oh, Edith had taken on these duties, Sybil had her nursing, Mama was running the house – but Mary did feel that the girls were her occupation, in a sort of way – and one just as taxing.

"Just one song." Edith rolled her eyes, blinked and gave a winning smile. "We all know how well you sing, Mary. It would cheer the men so much."

"Mama does sing nice," Mabel nodded, and looked beseechingly up at Mary.

Mary looked between them, and felt her resolve crumble. "Well… Alright, one song, and that's your lot! Come on, darling…" With a resigned smile at Edith, she ushered Mabel out after Isobel.

The journey home was strained, and quiet. No sooner were they in, and the girls taken upstairs to Miss Ludbrook, then Isobel sat down heavily in distress.

"I'm afraid I can't do it, Mary. Your mother has left no place for me – she has systematically snatched away or overridden every role of use I had within the house."

"Must everything be a competition?" Mary despaired, as she rang the bell for tea. "I don't see why you can't share responsibilities, and –"

"As I thought we were doing, or attempting to!" Isobel interrupted irritably. "But no, no, I cannot stay at work where I am so clearly neither valued nor wanted. And please, my dear, make no attempt to justify any of this or to placate me, I have read the matter perfectly clearly." She slumped, then, and Mary felt a wave of sympathy for her.

"Oh, Isobel. I am sorry." Mary rubbed her hands together distractedly, and fussed with the tea set while it brewed. She wondered if she _should_ feel quite so relieved, that the endless conflict might now be over, when Isobel looked so despondent about it… "What will you do?"

Isobel shrugged, and accepted the tea from Mary, letting the cup warm her hands.

"I'm not sure. You see, I – did have a letter, from my sister. It didn't seem wise, or possible; but now, I wonder… She mentioned a Red Cross nursing post – in France."

"What? You can't be considering that, surely!"

"I must do _something_, Mary. I must be useful."

"Please, Isobel." Mary felt her voice take on a desperate note. Matthew was gone, that she must bear, but to think that Isobel might disappear to the cause as well… "Don't be rash. Really, you can't leave – the girls would miss you so terribly, and you know what comfort it gives Matthew that we're all here together. For his sake, and theirs – please think carefully."

Her mind in turmoil, Isobel sipped her tea. "I know, my dear. It would be – very hard to leave. Very hard."

"Then don't!"

"But I've effectively banished myself from the Abbey, you see, and I must serve some contribution – for Matthew's sake as well as anything, you do understand that?"

"Of course I do," Mary sighed. Weren't they all trying to? Anything they could do, the least of it, must hold some worth, while Matthew was giving so much. "But can't you find that here? What about – what about the hospital? You worked there before, and I imagine particular nursing skills are needed more there than at the Abbey."

"I suppose I must try, if there'd be a place for me there." Isobel resigned herself to it. Perhaps she was better off away from the Abbey; yes, she must be. She sighed, deeply. "I am sorry, Mary, all this can't have been easy for you. And you're right, of course, I'd miss the girls dreadfully – and you. I certainly wouldn't _want_ to leave; I do hope you know that, my dear."

"Certainly I do." Mary smiled, and poured more tea. They were in it together, they had to be. If Clarkson had managed to wrangle Thomas in as Sergeant at Downton, surely he could be made to find a place for Isobel, surely he could hardly turn down the help… Well, it would have to be seen.

In the meantime, over the next few days, the relative peace brought about was pleasant to the point of being almost unsettling. Mary dithered over whether to visit the Abbey, or to not – to stay or to go, either way, would indicate an impression of solidarity one way or the other; and she truly didn't want to upset either of the two women she counted very dear.

Deciding it wisest to lie low for the time being (a decision validated by Catherine becoming sick; Mary was reluctant to leave her), it was a welcome surprise then when Cora called in for tea a few days later.

"Excuse me Lady Mary; there's Lady Grantham to see you, and Lady Edith," Molesley announced.

"Oh! Hello," Mary looked up and smiled broadly. "Molesley, some tea would be wonderful – please excuse me not getting up, I'm giving Miss Ludbrook some uninterrupted time with Bel for a while…" She glanced down at Catherine on her lap, the baby wrapped in a thick, woollen shawl as her little body shook with coughs every now and again. Mary rubbed her back soothingly, shushing her softly.

"Not at all, darling – oh, the poor thing," Cora clucked as she settled onto the settee, Edith next to her.

"We've missed you at home," Edith said eventually, once Isobel's absence at the hospital had been established and Catherine's illness cooed over. Mary glanced up incredulously. "Well, we must practise that song – the concert's in only a few days!"

"Oh, yes. I'll come tomorrow, if that would suit?"

"It'll have to, I suppose!"

Edith settled back on the settee, a little uncomfortably. Though she and Mary undeniably got on far better now that her elder sister lived away, they still couldn't be described as close; in fact it was very rare for Edith to visit Crawley House. Cora had been surprised when she'd asked to accompany her, but who was she to stand in the way of any care between the two?

Thinking it not wise to jump in straight away, Edith listened with passing interest as her mother and sister talked about the house, the girls, Mabel's attempt at a picture of Matthew (only even partially recognisable by the splodged blue eyes and blonde hair, but wasn't it the thought that counted?), how best to care for Catherine and the state of the garden in winter… All of it seeming very irrelevant to Edith, these issues of motherhood and house-management. But it would be an odd thing to ask _right_ away…

When the conversation inevitably lulled, then, in the quiet pause between Catherine's sniffling cough and the quiet clink of china teacups, Edith put hers down and mustered as natural an air of curiosity as she could manage.

"And have you heard from Matthew, lately? It seems an age since we've seen him; do you know when he's due back?"

Mary looked up, frowning gently. "No, I – haven't for a couple of weeks. But he's busy, I'm sure. He hasn't mentioned any leave, why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason particularly," Edith flushed, and folded her hands more purposefully. "I – only thought it'd be nice if he were here for the concert, that's all."

Why had she asked – what good had it done, really? She'd thought it might help, somehow… When Daisy had asked her earlier that morning about William, she'd instinctively wondered about Matthew. If he was also expected back, there might be cause to worry, but if not… But then, the kitchen maid had been sure about William's plans, and so far as Edith could understand it, Matthew's leave should be the same as his servant's shouldn't it? But why wouldn't Mary know, then? Maybe she'd better mention it to their father after all – there'd be no harm in an enquiry, surely. At least then she could stop wondering about it!

As it happened, Robert agreed with her – there seemed little cause for alarm, particularly if Matthew wasn't expected back in any case. But, he also agreed that there was no harm in making some enquiries, just for peace of mind… Not that it brought any peace to his mind, not in the slightest, when the telephone call came that evening.

Filing behind the rest of the family, Edith stepped from the dining room into the dimly lit hallway to see her father replacing the telephone receiver slowly, his head bowed as if under a great weight. Her heart immediately beat a little faster, the first flutter of anxiety settling in her chest.

"Are you alright, Papa?" she tentatively asked, licking her lips as it seemed to take him an age to answer her, his words (when they came) precise and careful.

"That was the war office… Matthew and William went out on a patrol a few days ago, and they haven't been seen since."

"Oh my God…" She hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected it to feel like this. Her gut twisted and she felt breathless, she thought she'd been hardened to bad news, by now, to the uncomfortable truths of war but – for it to be _Matthew_, and their own footman… Robert was trying to pass it off, say there was really no need to worry yet, it happened all the time but his eyes, his voice told a different story, and –

"Don't – say anything to Mary. Or your mother. Or anyone in fact, not yet – I shouldn't really have told you…" he trailed off, bringing his hand wearily to his forehead.

Edith's expression twisted. "But – he's Mary's _husband_, surely we have to – and Cousin Isobel –"

"I don't want to worry them," Robert quietly insisted. With a weak smile of what he hoped was assurance, he reached for Edith's hand. It would be alright. There was no need to worry; it would be alright. Over and over in his mind, he told himself… it happened all the time, it was too early, it would be alright…

When Mary arrived at the Abbey the next day to practise with Edith, the younger Crawley's sober mood didn't go unnoticed.

"For goodness sake, Edith! I know I haven't been here but you might at least have practised yourself in the meantime," she sighed, as her sister stumbled over another note.

"I'm sorry, Mary – I have been, it's only…"

"Is anything the matter?" Mary frowned.

"No, no. There's only a lot of errands I'm trying to keep track of, that's all." How could she possibly reveal the cause of her distraction? While part of her understood her father's words – when she felt so anxious, she could barely imagine how Mary would take it – it felt wrong, so wrong, for her sister (even Mary) to be kept in the dark about her own husband.

Edith wrung her hands together, and shook her head brusquely. "Let's try again." And she started to play, her fingers on the smooth keys coaxing out the lilting harmonies before Mary could press any further.

Mary sighed, tapped her fingers on the top of the piano, and duly started to sing. In an instant they seemed to have been transported back years and years, to their days of governesses and entertaining their parents' dinner guests and… Well, not that Edith _missed_ those days at all, nor did she look back on them with any sort of fondness but it had all been so much _simpler_ then. She was relieved when Mary deemed their practise satisfactory enough (though wouldn't it be better if they had a man…) and returned to Crawley House.

But when the doorbell rang only hours later, and Edith was once more announced, Mary couldn't conceal her surprise. To her recollection, Edith had never visited her alone at Crawley House, before. There'd never been any reason to.

As she perched on the edge of the settee, Edith picked nervously at her gloves, noticing with some relief that Mabel and Catherine were not in the room. She couldn't place why she'd come. Was it guilt? Guilt at that tiny, _tiny_ glimmer of her old bitterness against Mary that had resurfaced with some sick kind of satisfaction? Such a thought had horrified her. Was her father right, was this only further cruelty? She did hope she was a better sister now – they were to each other – but could she really claim kindness here? She liked to think so. She had to think so! It wasn't right, wasn't right that she knew and Papa knew but Mary didn't know, that Matthew might be in danger. Well, he was in danger every day of course, but –

"Edith, what on earth is it?" Mary's infuriatingly silken voice broke into her agitation of thoughts. Would she be so calm still? Edith's brow knitted as she took the proffered teacup from Mary, stirring it slowly.

"There's… something you ought to know," she finally said. Already, Mary's expression tightened in concern as Edith carried on. "Papa said not to tell you, but I don't think he's right."

"Go on…" Mary held herself tersely, sitting forward in her chair, watching ever flicker in her sister's face for some clue. An uncomfortable thud had started in her chest; every indication suggesting that something was very, very wrong.

Edith inhaled lightly. "Matthew's missing." There, it was out.

_Missing_.

The thud pounded in Mary's ears, rushed, tried to drown out what she had just heard as she stiffened but Edith carried on… "He was on patrol and he's just sort of… vanished." Mary remained motionless, frozen, her suddenly cold and engulfing eyes burning into Edith as her mind refused to process it… "Papa hasn't told anyone. Not even Mama… I only know because I was there when he found out. It – didn't seem right to keep you in the dark."

Silence, thunderous silence thickened the air as everything in Mary's throat and chest tightened to a painful, agonising knot. Edith's voice strained higher. "I'm not trying to upset you – truly!"

Finally, Mary blinked. Though her mouth was terribly dry, her mind still a fog of denial, she tried to ask… She didn't understand…

"But how did… Why –" She swallowed, and tried again, her voice only a haunted whisper. "How do _you_ know?"

"The – the kitchen maid, Daisy – she asked about William, you see," Edith stammered, feeling herself wilt under Mary's cold distress. "They were due back… when I asked yesterday, I didn't know about Matthew, but she was worried about William so Papa telephoned the war office. Mary, I'm sorry, truly I am."

Mary nodded slowly. "For once in my life, I believe you," she murmured. Edith recognised it for the slight thanks it was, wondering with an awful clarity if Papa maybe had been right after all. Mary looked frighteningly calm, and still, and Edith wasn't at all sure what to do next. It had never, not once in her life so long as she could remember, occurred to her to comfort Mary. She'd never felt such an inclination, wasn't at all sure Mary would welcome it, wouldn't know how to go about it… It suddenly seemed strange how it came so naturally with perfect strangers, and not at all with her own sister.

Edith's discomfort was the least of Mary's thoughts. She hadn't even noticed. _Missing_. Matthew. Darling Matthew, dear, sweet, darling Matthew was missing. The thing she hadn't dared contemplate, the fear that had hovered like a spectre at the fringes of her mind, perpetually since the war had started, now in blinding, terrifying clarity assaulted her thoughts with nowhere to hide from it.

Staring without focus at the carpet, she only remembered Edith's presence when her younger sister stood up.

"Mary, I'd better…"

"Of course," she mumbled.

"Please, if there's anything…"

"No. There isn't." Mary shook her head, somehow managing to stand though her legs trembled beneath her, and rang the bell. For a moment, she met Edith's eyes with more sincerity than she'd ever seen. "Thank you."

Edith only nodded, and waited quietly while Molesley came in, and Mary informed him she'd be leaving.

"Of course, Lady Mary. Oh, if – I could…" The butler paused awkwardly.

"Yes?" Mary said, more harshly than she'd meant.

"Well, Milady, there's a gentleman at the back door. An ex-soldier – wounded, he's been. Only, Mrs. Bird wondered if we might give him something – leftovers, that'd be it – if it'd be alright."

"What? Yes, of course. Whatever she thinks." _Wounded. _What if Matthew were wounded? Not only missing – how could it be that no-one knew where he was, surely someone must, he can't have – but _wounded_, too? If he were hurt, if he were alone… No, William was with him, but – God, she had to hope William was with him, dear God he couldn't be alone!

She blinked as if it could clear the horrible images in her mind, but her closed eyes only heightened them. Matthew, in a field, or a ditch somewhere, broken, hurt, his handsome face soiled with his own blood and… Gasping, her eyes flew open again. Edith had left. When had she gone?

As if in a trance, Mary went upstairs. Though she felt heavy, she seemed to float, feeling a strange detachment from her limbs, a strange numbness from the barrage of thoughts, the spiral of her mind into despair. Of course, Papa would have said there was no need to worry. Not yet. No need to worry! She worried every day, how could she _not_ worry when he was _missing_ and no-one even knew whether he was alive, or – or… Bitterness weighed heavy in her at the futility of her prayers; what good had any of it been, if…

Quite naturally, and quite without conscious thought, she pushed open the nursery door.

"Miss Ludbrook," she said quietly, lips trembling into something almost like a smile when the young woman looked up from where she sat at the little table beside Mabel, a colouring page open in front of them. "I – think the nursery's laundry is ready downstairs… Would you see to it?"

"Yes, Milday, of course." Without question, Miss Ludbrook stood up and slipped past, wondering at the disturbing vacancy in her mistress' eyes.

Mary barely heard the door close behind her. Gentle sounds from the crib told her Catherine slept, her little cough not quite gone yet. Mabel straightened in her chair, shifting impatiently as she waited for her Mama to come and see what she'd been doing.

"Well, darling," Mary breathed as she knelt beside her daughter. "What's this?" But she wasn't looking at Mabel's picture. All she could see was those eyes shining at her, the soft curve of Mabel's lip, the roundness of her cheek that was so like… _so_ like Matthew's. Their darling, darling children…

"It's a – garden," Mabel stated proudly, remembering what Miss Ludbrook had said. Like outside. "Papa likes it – ou'side. So's for Papa."

"Yes! Yes, darling, Papa loves the garden, doesn't he." To Mabel's surprise (though she certainly wasn't complaining!), Mary swept her onto her knee and hugged her tightly, fiercely pressing kisses to her golden hair. "And he doesn't see – so many flowers, in France." Her heart broke as images of barren fields, muddied trenches, wasted land like they saw in the newspapers burst into her mind. That somewhere, _somewhere_, Matthew was in the middle of, not here… She gasped and held Mabel tighter. "He'll love it, when he sees it."

"Be home soon?" Mabel asked, muffled in Mary's shoulder. Mary's eyes squeezed shut, feeling her lip tremble as she gasped out the only response she could manage.

"I don't know! Darling, I don't know. Let's hope so, shall we?"

She must hope. She had to. Maybe – it seemed silly, but she wondered if the innocent wish and prayer of a child might hold more weight than her own.

Carrying Mabel tightly against her chest, Mary moved to sit beside the crib on the little chaise there. Lost in her thoughts, she distractedly stroked Mabel's hair, her eyes fixed on little Catherine. Thank God they had her – and then Mary realised with a further blow that if the worst had happened, Matthew… would never have seen her. Catherine might never have the chance to know her father, and she felt her throat close up in a choking sob at the tragedy of the thought. It was such an _injustice_, that Matthew might never see his daughter, that Catherine might be robbed of the chance of knowing the most wonderful father she could wish for, because of this _damned_ senseless war, and –

"You sad, Mama?"

Mary gasped as Mabel twisted in her arms and touched her cheek, blinking up at her with those captivating blue eyes.

"Oh, darling – it's nothing," she smiled weakly, quickly brushing away any stray tears. "Nothing at all." _Dear God, let it be nothing at all._

Nothing at all. It might – it _might_ be nothing at all.

Isobel, when Mary broke it to her on her return from the hospital, tried to encourage her to believe it. But the quiet fear in her eyes could not be disguised, and it offered little comfort.

Mary retired to bed immediately after dinner. Her dreams were haunted. A lonely future, a lonely bed, Matthew alone, all of them alone… She ached, absolutely _ached_ for the comfort of his arms, clinging desperately to the memory and overcome by the chance that memory would be all she had left. How could she bear it? Wrapping the blankets tighter about her, she curled into a ball, but she couldn't squeeze out the thoughts that assuaged her. Memories and dreams and feelings and futures, clashing impossibly and painfully together, suffocating under the weight of her agonising love. Unable to bear it, she got up and went through to his dressing room. It was so _Matthew_, this room – his cufflinks all on the cabinet, there, his suits and shoes in the wardrobe – she ran her hand down the sleeve of one, as if somehow that could mean something. All these were memories of a distant life – one that she hadn't known, one that he'd hoped to return to – that he _must_ return to. It felt as though the dream were slipping through her fingers.

Remembering her old comfort, and too beyond thought to care about how silly anyone might think it (what business would it be of theirs?), she opened a drawer in the cabinet. Pulling out the shirt that lay on the top, she held it to her face for a moment, allowing the familiar smell and texture to soothe her a little. Taking it with her, she crawled back into their bed, back into a restless, troubled sleep.

In the cool light of morning, things seemed… perhaps a _little_ more hopeful. When Ellen brought her a cup of tea, Mary pushed the window open, allowing the cold January air to cool her hot cheeks. It helped a little.

Numbness had settled over her. He wasn't dead. She could believe that he wasn't dead, there was _hope_. She repeated Isobel's comfort, the excuses that she _knew_ made sense, in her head like a mantra. _It's too early to tell. It happens all the time. A mix-up in paperwork. A perfectly reasonable explanation._

Isobel was surprised by her calmness at breakfast. Unsure whether to mention it, she didn't know whether to ask if Mary was alright or shy away from bringing it to mind again. For herself, though, she knew she had to keep busy. The hospital was busy, busier than ever; she could detach herself well enough.

Alone again (well, it felt like it), Mary spent the day quietly expecting the bell to ring, or the phone call, that would tell her it was alright. There'd been no need to worry. They were safe. She didn't want to go to the Abbey, not today – she couldn't face that. And so she waited. She wrote a letter…. Thought about writing to Matthew. Read his last letter, the thin paper almost crumpling between her fingers until the fear of damaging them scared her so much that she locked it back into a drawer. She read a storybook to Mabel and Catherine. Remembered Bel's enthralment when Matthew would read to her, her laughter at the silly voices he made and the expression in his face, and suddenly she couldn't face it anymore either.

Sitting downstairs again, she tried reading. A passage made her laugh; she wondered what Matthew would think of it. She sighed deeply and put it down. Her embroidery, then. There.

All day, she waited, but no call came. Edith didn't call, not to tell her that it had all been a mistake and he was alright, and not to even ask how she was – Mary felt a strange indignation at that.

Night fell, and still no word. Mary shivered, lying in their cold bed. A few days ago… Today… He'd been missing this long, he must be freezing… How could nobody know where he was for this long, how had he not found his way back to somewhere? Cold fingers of despair threaded through her again, every ray of hope, every positive thought slowly cooling and dying away. Why – _why_, if he was due back, hadn't he told her? While she wanted to believe he'd meant to surprise her, a dark part of her mind wondered if he'd known, somehow. Didn't men have a sixth sense about this sort of thing? Hadn't he wanted her to get her hopes up, to expect him home? Trembling, she squeezed her eyes closed into another silent prayer. _Please, dear Lord, let him be alright. Keep him safe. Wherever he is, please, let him be safe._

When she next awoke, it was with a new resolve that seemed to lie over the empty weight in her heart. Sitting around the house was useless; it only spiralled her despair. This afternoon was the concert. She knew the part she had to play; well, she may as well start her practise early. She'd need every ounce of strength she had to make it through. And maybe… _maybe _by then, there'd be news. One way or the other.

Here, though, too, everything only reminded her of Matthew, Matthew, _Matthew_… The soldiers, whose wounds terrified her as she imagined Matthew – similarly hurt, but unattended – the dining room at luncheon, where he'd kissed her the first time… The house, all of it, surrounding and engulfing her that would one day be theirs, if, _if_ Matthew came through it, this would be their home… But no matter how hard it was, she remembered that nobody knew. Only Edith, who was doing a remarkably good job of drawing no attention to it, and maybe Papa but perhaps he wasn't aware she knew… It was good for her. She had to face people, company, society – whatever happened. Every minute, every hour that passed, and she did not break down or give any sign away, strengthened her.

She was doing so well, she thought. She could do this – she could harbour a little hope, just a little, small though it was – and pretend that everything was alright. If she concentrated very hard, it was just like always – Matthew wasn't here, she was quite used to that. She could almost – _almost_ – forget that Matthew might very well not come back at all. That nobody knew where he was. That he was _missing_. With the concert just about ready, though – she'd settled the girls with Isobel in the library already – her nerves started to jitter, and she went to find her mother. Just to see her, to gain the sort of silent comfort that only her mother could give, whether she knew the circumstances or not.

And she heard her father say,

"But I think we should start to prepare."

Mary felt winded. Is this what he thought in private, that hope was disappearing? Did Isobel think so too? All those words of comfort, those reassurances, faded to the back of her mind. How had she been so _stupid_! Matthew was missing, her darling husband.

"Have you said anything to Mary?" she heard her mother quietly ask.

Pressing a trembling hand to her lips, Mary turned into the room, not caring whether or not they'd be surprised.

"Edith's already told me." Her hands lowered, clenching into tight fists by her sides as she fought to maintain control. The sickening expression of sympathy on her parents' faces only pained her further.

"Has she," Robert sighed. "I am sorry; I didn't want you to –"

"No, I'm glad she did," Mary trembled, nodding her head gently. Understanding her, Robert pressed his lips into a narrow smile and lowered his head. They were all sorry. Of course he understood; he loved Matthew. They all did, and he could only be glad that he believed Matthew knew, now, how they all treasured him. That he had known. God.

"We should go down," Cora said in a small voice, trying to focus them all on something. "It's time for the concert."

"Oh, who _cares_ about the stupid concert –" Mary's expression tightened to frustration, her eyes brimming with tears.

"The men do," Robert immediately cut her off. "And we should too." Oh, Mary understood him well enough; the men cared, soldiers, like Matthew, he would care, so they must, they must face it together because Matthew, _Matthew_ would want them to, would want _her _to be strong for him…

She barely felt the squeeze of her mother's hand as she passed, or the touch of her father's hand on her arm. Would Matthew want her to? Yes, of course he would. He'd want her to be strong. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and straightened, tilting her chin into the air. _Matthew_. He loved her, had loved her, would love her till his very last breath and _God_ she hoped he hadn't taken it. And damn everything else, she would be strong for him, because he'd expect her to be. She was Lady Mary Crawley, she was Matthew's wife, she was a mother. She would not fall apart.

When Edith beckoned her to the piano, she gently placed a happily clapping Catherine into Isobel's arms, and touched Mabel fondly on the head. Groaning inwardly at her own pithy introduction, she fixed her eyes on a spot at the back of the room, fixed a broad smile to her face (everyone did when they sang; the falsity need not matter), and started to sing.

"_Sometimes, when I am sad, and things look blue –" _She gasped a breath between lines, honing on the sound of her own voice, wishing she'd chosen any other song than this.

"_I wish a pal I had, say one like you…" _He sprang to her mind again and she blinked, trying so hard not to think of him, not to think of him, it was too hard… Her voice trembled and she clasped her hands tightly together, almost bruising herself, _anything_ to stop him from her mind.

"_Someone within my heart to build a throne,  
>Someone who'd never part, to call my own."<em> Her voice cracked and she lowered her chin, desperately gesturing for everyone to join her on the chorus. Every word struck her deeply, a knife deep in her chest, every thought of him it conjured twisting the knife deeper. She couldn't, couldn't look at any of them… The wall, it was safe, there was nothing there, she could look there, right at the back.

"_If you were the only girl in the world, and I were the only boy,  
>Nothing else would matter in the world today,<br>We could go on loving in the same –"_

No.

Her hand flew to her mouth, the words dying on her lips. Was she so distressed? So mindless with it that her aching mind could _conjure_ him there, oh it was taunting, but…

She didn't notice that she'd stopped, nor everyone else, as they slowly turned to see what she was staring at.

Matthew looked at her, a gentle smile playing on his face to hear her singing so well – oh, and how he imagined the words about the two of them! – but… she was staring at him as she never had in all the time he'd known her. And then when Robert dashed up – pumping his hand, tears in his eyes as he called him a 'very dear boy' with such a tremble in his voice… God, what had they been told?

Mary was rooted, frozen, incapable of anything other than to grasp the side of the piano weakly as she thanked God with every fibre of her being, drinking in the sight of him as he came towards her.

"Come on, don't – stop for me," he said lightly, trying to reassure her as best he could. If only all these people weren't here, he… Licking his lips, he took a breath and carried on towards her. "_I would say such wonderful things to you –"_ he sang, making her believe it, taking her hands firmly between his own as he stood beside her.

"_There would be such wonderful things to do…" _Mary felt as though she could break apart, shatter right there if not for his grip on her hands, the physical, tangible reality of him _being there_, and – what could be more wonderful than this? As they sang the closing lines together, they turned without thinking towards each other, forgetting everyone and everything else in the room.

In Mary's world, in that moment, he was the only boy – the only person, the only thing – she cared about nothing else, could think of nothing else. His darling eyes were shining at her, his smile, he was in front of her… Trembling, she clutched his hands tightly between them, then tentatively reached to touch his face.

"Darling, you're – I thought –" she whispered. One look at her and he understood; what they must have thought, how she must have worried…

"I'm quite definitely here," he murmured, pulling her against his chest and whispering quiet reassurances against her ear. "I'm alright, my darling, I'm perfectly alright."

_Alright_. _Here_. They were the dearest words she'd ever heard. Breathless, she leaned back in his arms and looked at him, taking the sweetest pleasure in being able to, having thought she might never again… and kissed him. It was painfully beautiful, achingly sweet, his lips against hers and his strong arms around her, and…

"_Papa!"_ Mabel had wriggled free from Isobel and careered down the aisle of chairs, bowling into Matthew's leg before he leaned down and scooped her into his arms. Mary could only watch him in delight, unable to fathom such joy as Matthew saw his mother near the back, and waited for Mary to walk down with him, their child curling happily against his chest.

"Hello, my little darling," he chuckled to Bel. "Haven't you a little sister to introduce me to?"

The rest of the concert passed in a blur. The numbness of despair had been replaced with a numbness from sheer, unthinkable happiness – too much to feel, too much to bear. It was like a dream. Catherine seemed to instinctively know Matthew, and Bel chattered nonsensically (amid much shushing from her family) between them, as if she were the world's greatest authority on both father and daughter.

When it was over, Matthew stood proudly with Catherine, Mabel bearing the jealousy well as she clung to his leg, as he did his best to fill them in. Mary listened distractedly, desperate to know every detail of his danger while at the same time really, _really_ not caring beyond anything than that he was _safe_.

Trapped behind German lines… Field hospitals… Misinformation, _damn_ them for not letting his family know he was safe!

"I hope you weren't – really worried," Matthew said tentatively; but one simple glance at Mary told him everything. With his free hand he clutched hers tightly; an apology and a promise.

"We do like to be sure of our hero at the front," Robert smiled warmly, before being summoned to bid his mother goodbye, leaving Isobel with the small family.

"Please, Matthew, however long this war goes on – don't do that again," she teased.

"I will try," he smiled, then looked to Mary. He felt so terribly for both of them, wished there were some way he could repair their pain.

"Well," Mary sighed purposefully. "We've time to change before dinner – I'll take the girls up to sleep for a while."

"I'll come, too," Matthew said needlessly. With a fond kiss for his mother, he followed Mary up the staircase to the Abbey's nursery. He kissed both girls, and softly read them the book that Bel picked out, smiling at the warmth of Mary's gaze on his back, her touch on his knee and the sight of both his darling daughters content in their cribs. This was what he fought for… Them. They stood, and he took Mary into his arms, breathing in her perfume and the scent of her hair.

"Oh, Matthew," she whispered tremulously against his cheek, twisting her fingers into his hair. "Darling I thought –"

"Don't," he pleaded with her, dropping a soft, tender kiss to her lips. "I know, my darling – I know. But it's alright." He couldn't talk about it. Couldn't tell her, how scared he'd been, what thoughts had darkened his mind… It hadn't been like the rush of a battle; they'd been trapped, stuck, sheltering under a bloody fallen tree that offered pitiful protection if they'd have been discovered. All that _time_, with death or capture seeming their only way out. He shivered.

"Darling..?" She felt his arms tighten around her, saw the shadow in his eyes. "What's the matter?" Her fingers skimmed lightly over his cheek, the softness of her voice settling the memory of his fear, and her own.

Matthew swallowed heavily, his fingers clutching a little more tightly at her. How could he… She was so perfect, she was _real_, she was in his arms…

"You see when I'm here," his voice shook quietly, "it's so hard to believe that you, and all of this is real, when I – know I have to go back, and… that thought stays with me, always. I'm sorry…"

"Oh my darling!" She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lacing her fingers with his. "You must – just take care of yourself, please. It really can't be long, now. And we will be here – as real as we are now, dearest – every time you come back."

Matthew nodded, tried his hardest to believe her. Tried to remember that this wasn't all just a beautiful dream, his wife and his daughters, _both_ his darling girls…

Without saying another word, Mary tightened her grip on his hand, turned down the light and led him down the corridor. He knew where they were going without question.

As soon as the door closed behind them, they fell to a desperate intimacy. In the darkness Mary worked his clothes from him – his thick leather belt, his heavy jacket, his constricting tie, desperate to reach _him_… Her blouse was thin, it shed from her body in moments under Matthew's hands and he was _alive_ and hot and his pulse throbbed under her lips as they fell to the bed, wrapped in each other.

She didn't bother to quiet her moan as his mouth found her breast, the heat of his tongue a glorious contrast to the cold air… His hands, his skin, _him_, all of him was wonderful and powerful and she needed him to possess her, to banish the dream from her mind and make it _real._ Her hand blindly reached, grasped, stroked and his guttural moan made her shiver unbearably. His fingers, taunting her… _filling_ her as his lips dragged over and over her breasts, her whimpers and gasps growing louder and stronger as she lost herself to him.

Kneeling between her legs, Matthew waited as she calmed, stroking his hands over her, touching every inch of her perfect, freckled skin. He understood her need, needed her himself, _God_ he'd thought that this time he'd been done for and to see her again… To have her body before him, under him, around him, to _feel_ her, and feel the effect he had on her, that they had on each other… Yes, she was real, and perfect, and… There was no greater beauty than the two of them, like _this_, as he grasped her hips and filled her, hooking his arms under her knees which took him so torturously, _gloriously_ deep into her that she cried out, head flung back and back arched in pleasure as he powered into her again and again.

She felt the strength of his hands holding her hips, the force of each thrust that made her shudder, and she grasped his knees clinging desperately to him as he reaffirmed everything she had feared or doubted these last two days. Matthew loomed over her, his chest and face shadowy but so definitely _him_, his teeth clenching in effort as a raw groan tore from his throat, and again, their cries rising and melding in the still air as their sweat-slicked bodies fused and they soared and crashed together.

Trembling fiercely, they shifted and curled together, Matthew's arms wrapping tightly around his wife as his lips fell to her flushed neck in hot, breathless kisses.

"Thank you," he whispered against her skin. Under the heavy blankets, his toe brushed over her ankle, and he felt her shiver and shift even closer to him, every inch of their bodies pressing together.

Mary's eyes squeezed shut, her cheek resting against his dampened hair. He was really here. _They_ were here, they were together. He was _alive_, and she was _real_, and when they could become so perfectly, wholly one… everything else faded to insignificance in the warm truth of each other.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thanks so much for reading. I know I can't do justice to that scene - oh, my heart! It makes me weep EVERY TIME I watch it. EVERY. TIME. THEIR FACES. But nonetheless, I very much hope you enjoyed it, and of course would love to know your thoughts! Your comments always mean so much to me. Thank you!_


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: _Happy Monday? Of course, Happy Monday. But GAH, 2x05. The episode that left me a complete emotional wreck. I spent the next day on the verge of tears, I cried half the way home, I saw an S1 picture of Matthew walking and started to cry, GAH. It was AMAZING. Dan Stevens and Michelle Dockery deserve ALL THE AWARDS._

_Since I started my AU s2 path in ATiL, this is the episode I've been looking forward to, even though it's so wrenching. I've got no chance of doing it justice, really, but I've given it my best shot! Thank you so much for your continued support with this fic, it's so encouraging. And thank you so much to EOlivet, always. :)_

_Enjoy...!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two<strong>

_August, 1918_

"Am I ready?"

Damn that tremor in his voice. Mason didn't need to know that. He was supposed to be strong for them, wasn't he? His lips pressed together in an attempt to still those outward signs of fear, while Mason finished with his uniform.

"Only you can answer that, Sir."

Matthew swallowed. He didn't _feel_ it, but he had to be. Because this was big; 'the big push' (how many of those had they had already?), the one that might win them the war… God, it was always _this time, this is the one, this time we'll break them_… But it was coming on eight months, now, since Mary had tried to reassure him that it must be over soon. Perhaps this would be it. But they'd have to fight damned hard for it.

"They're going to chuck everything they've got at us." And Matthew knew very well just how much they had, and what they could do; those guns and shells and gas, he'd seen what they did to men, men torn up in front of his eyes. The full panoply of warfare, and its devastation. He knew what it could do, and what he had to do to end it – it was kill, or be killed. God, he wished there was another way. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it back down, grimacing. Once they were up there, surrounded by smoke and shouts and shots, it was somehow alright… Impulse, the simple, innate drive to survive, took over. But now, in the dim, shaky light of the dugout, with all that waiting, _waiting_ for them… he was terrified.

"Well, we shall just have to chuck it back at them, won't we?" Mason smiled bravely.

Matthew nodded, sharply. "Quite right."

That was all they could do.

* * *

><p>"But what do you think she <em>means<em> by it?" Violet pressed on insistently.

"I really don't know," Cora shook her head. "I don't know that she means anything by it, she just seems to get on terribly well with him; need there be anything more to it than that?"

Between them, Mary's lip quirked in amusement as the two women argued over the precise nature of Aunt Rosamund's relationship with Sir Richard. For herself, she very well supposed they could just be friends who shared the same good humour and hunger for gossip. But that was quite alright, wasn't it? She raised her teacup to her lips to disguise her smile, while the Dowager Countess took up the argument.

"My dear, there is always more to these things. I'm positively sure that –"

A plaintive, insistent cry suddenly drowned Violet's words at the same moment as Mary's teacup shattered onto the carpet.

"I'm so sorry! Darling –" Trembling, Mary pushed herself off the settee to where Catherine and Mabel had been quietly dressing a doll under Robert's desk. Imagining that her elder daughter had been a little too enthusiastic, or snatched, she bore a distressed Catherine into her arms preparing to scold Mabel; but nothing seemed amiss at all, Mabel's blue eyes wide with innocence and surprise. "Hush, my darling," Mary soothed, carrying Catherine back to the settee and settling her in her lap. "What is it?"

"Brr," the little girl sniffed and shivered in her arms, wiping a hand across her teary face. Mary frowned, as Mabel padded up and touched her hand to Catherine's leg.

"Hush Kit," she mumbled softly, before Mary pulled her aside as Carson cleared the china.

"My dear, whatever's the matter?" Violet reached over and touched her hand.

Mary shook her head, troubled. "I don't know. I suddenly felt terribly cold."

But it was the middle of August, and the sun beat out hot over the grounds.

* * *

><p>Funny, he thought. There was no pain. Not… much. Not much of anything.<p>

Dim voices.

"Morphine. And for him."

"That one looks like he's 'ad it."

"Reckon you're right. Over the wall, then."

"This one's alive. Just about."

"Morphine, then. Blimey, 'ope there's enough room in the clearing station."

Footsteps. Then…

Darkness. A strange, floating darkness (he couldn't feel any ground beneath him, or anything really)… and he sank thankfully into it.

* * *

><p>Mary's sleep was troubled. The girls were upset, flighty, there was something wrong in her dream, she was chasing something, losing something… She tossed, and turned, and groaned, resisting the hand that was trying to shake her out of it before she knew what it was she'd lost…<p>

"Lady Mary? Milady, wake up, please –"

"-what?" she mumbled, rubbing fists into her eyes as she slowly sat up, nightdress clinging to her with damp sweat. Ellen was there. Why was Ellen there?

"Mr. Molesley's asked me to wake you, Milady – there's been a telegram, just delivered, please –" The maid, also still in her nightdress and shawl, had the light of panic in her eyes. Mary's heart started to hammer, her head hammered, her jaw flexing as her mind began to wake up and things began to slot into place.

"A – a telegram?"

Ellen nodded. Mary started to shake, and wordlessly got out of bed, clinging almost desperately to the banister as she padded downstairs.

There were only a few things, a very few things, that a telegram at this time of night could mean. And none of them bore thinking about.

Molesley passed it into her hands, his face grave and pale. Mary stared at it. Such a tiny thing, such a fragile little scrap of paper, that held such power, the power to turn her entire world upside down.

She couldn't open it.

"Molesley," she said quietly, still staring with a sort of fascinated horror at the little envelope in her hands.

"Y-yes?"

Mary glanced up at him; it only just occurring to her just how fond all the staff were of Matthew – Molesley in particular, of course. Her expression softened from the tightness of unease, just the smallest fraction.

It was terribly late, it was the middle of the night, but Mary quietly asked for her father to be sent for. She couldn't do it alone; Isobel was away at her sister's (of course it would be now, of course) – Lord, Isobel wouldn't know – and she felt a desperate need for her family.

Without complaint, Molesley went out into the night, and Mary… waited. The telegram felt as though it burnt into her hand, but she couldn't put it down, couldn't open it… clutched it still in her hand as she dashed past the servants into the kitchen and vomited into the sink. Shaking, she calmly sat down while dear Mrs. Bird made some hot, sweet tea.

None of them wanted to say it would be alright. They couldn't.

Waiting, waiting, Mary was restless. The tea calmed her, a little, but she couldn't stop shaking and the anxious silence was stifling and while part of her thought she should just open it and get it over with she _couldn't_… Because while she didn't know what it said, there was hope. She could believe, still, that he was alive. He _might_ be alive. Maybe. It was only a tiny, tiny flame, but it wouldn't go out until she'd seen the words in front of her that he was – dead, and she _couldn't_, not alone.

When the door finally opened again, banging loudly in the front hall, she leapt from where she'd been sitting between Catherine and Mabel's cribs, both girls sleeping peacefully as she watched over them, her gaze flitting inevitably to Matthew's photograph on the shelf. Dear Matthew… Even with the telegram in her hands, even with her hope sinking by the minute, she carried on praying that somehow he might be safe.

Warm comfort washed over her as she met her parents in the hall. She couldn't have borne an audience for this, not if… But she needed _someone_. She tugged her dressing gown more securely around her and kissed them thankfully.

"I'm so sorry for waking you, only I –"

"Oh, darling, it's no trouble," Cora soothed her.

"None at all, my dear," her father said, trying to carry some semblance of reassurance in his tone.

They went into the sitting room. Mary eased down into Matthew's old chair (she favoured it, now) while her parents sat by her on the settee, Molesley hovering just inside the doorway.

There seemed little point putting it off any more. She took a deep breath. Then…

"I can't." She shook her head brusquely. "Papa –"

Simply nodding, Robert gently took the little envelope from his daughter's hand. Such a little thing, seeming to weigh so heavy. Mary watched him, watched him slit it open, ease the slip of paper out, and – "No! Please."

She almost snatched it back. No matter how terrible, she couldn't bear the thought of anyone knowing it before her. With trembling hands, she squeezed her eyes closed for a moment then opened them wide, forcing herself to read the words.

Seriously wounded… Amiens… Being shipped to England… _Alive_.

Her eyes stung and she blinked several times before wordlessly passing it over, her mind racing over what _seriously wounded_ might mean. What had it been – a bullet? A shell? Gas? She'd seen… such terrible things at the Abbey, men with ruined faces, bodies, limbs… Had he been in very much pain? The thought of it caused a physical ache in her chest; that Matthew was hurt and damaged but… _alive_.

Robert sighed. "The main thing is, he's not dead." Not yet, anyway, he thought; but Mary didn't need to worry about that now, too.

"Do they think he'll get here?" Cora frowned.

"It doesn't say –"

"And Isobel doesn't know, we must contact her –"

"I'll send word in the morning," Mary said flatly. She couldn't stop shaking, her throat was tight and every muscle on edge but he was _alive_, and beyond that she couldn't feel or think of anything.

When the sun dawned several hours later, Mary lay blinking up at the bed canopy after having not slept at all. She felt strangely numb, as though her chest was empty, a strange lightness that belied the seriousness of the telegram.

Because he was alive. No matter how severe his injuries – and she could hardly think of anything else, imagining them, imagining _him_ – he was alive, and out of the war. And in that, there was some relief.

Once she'd dressed, and sent Molesley to the post office with a telegram for Isobel, Mary went up to the nursery. This had plagued her too, but they deserved to know, if only they could understand…

"You see," she said softly, as they sat quietly and attentively in front of her, "Papa will be coming home later on! Only he's not very well, he's been – very hurt, so he shall have to stay at the hospital where Granny Bel works for a little while."

"Oh dear," Catherine babbled, recognising the sad tone in Mama's voice. Mabel frowned at her.

"Shush Kit! But –" She turned her wide, searching eyes to Mary. "Papa's home? To make better?"

Mary's lips trembled into a smile as she hugged her daughters.

"Yes, darling. But he has been hurt – yes, like when you grazed your knee only I think a little more – and you remember how you don't go to the hospital, so it may be a little while before you can see him, alright?"

"But Mama –"

"Bel, you know the rules." It pained her, but she had to see how he was first, if he was… very badly wounded, she didn't want the girls to be frightened, and Matthew would likely be very weak… "But I shall be there, waiting to sit with him when he arrives, and he'll be so happy to see you both very soon. It's very important that he isn't alone, so you mustn't fuss if I'm not here. Now, do you understand?"

Maybe she shouldn't have told them. How could they understand? But they deserved to know, of course they did.

Mabel nodded as she snatched her little horse from Catherine, who'd clutched it while she wasn't looking.

"Mama be with Papa. Tha's good."

"Yes, darling."

The day passed in a blur, at the same time seeming to drag terribly. Mary couldn't bear it at home; being either studiously avoided or looked at with pity was cloying and stifling and she had to _do_ something. Determined to keep herself busy, she packed a little bag and went to the hospital, trying not to think about it though it was all she _could_ think about. She'd know soon enough.

But there was only so much folding of towels and sheets she could do, only so much anxious pacing, only so much gathering of bowls and blankets and anything else he might need. Sybil was there, darling Sybil, trying to keep her occupied and distracted with jobs and chatter and there was no point in worrying just now, he was alive at least…

"Right, they're here," Doctor Clarkson called. Though Mary had waited for this moment the entire day, now that it was here she suddenly wanted to push it away again, didn't feel able to face it, she wasn't ready...

"May I stay to settle him in?" Sybil asked. Darling Sybil. Mary knew that her sister wanted to stay as much for her own comfort as to help Matthew, though she was thankful for both.

"Very well."

"I'm staying, too," Mary stepped forward from the bed she'd prepared for him, her voice determined. No, she wasn't a nurse, they probably all thought she'd get in the way but _Matthew_ was here and she didn't care.

"Lady Mary…" Clarkson came over to her. She knew what he was going to say, even though she felt unprepared for it. "I know – I appreciate that he's your husband, but I'm concerned that… Captain Crawley's condition may be very distressing for you. Might I suggest that you hang back, until the nurses have tidied him up a little?"

Her heart lurched at the reality of it. His _condition_, very distressing, that he needed tidying up (God, he'd travelled from France, hadn't they done anything for him?)… There wasn't the slightest chance she was going to _hang back_. She was amazed at how calm she sounded on the surface, while inside was a mess of conflicting emotions. Relief, terror, dread, love, all swirling and fighting for dominance. Finally, Clarkson simply nodded and said quietly, "Alright."

It was too late for anything else; soldiers were coming in and there was a stretcher with a man's head wound with bandages and Sybil ushered her to the side and then some more soldiers and – _Matthew_.

Her jaw tightened in anguish, fingers tensing uselessly by her sides. Dear God. It was as though he were asleep, in pyjamas and his face so relaxed, only… the blood, the cuts on his face and the bruising around his eye and he looked so _helpless_. They must be careful carrying him! She started to tremble, unable to believe that he was in front of her but so wholly altered from the vibrant, engaging, _darling_ man that had always returned home to her. Those cuts, the thought of what had hurt him, what he must have suffered, she couldn't bear it – then Sybil beckoned her to help. Of course.

"Gently, gently, gently –" Clarkson urged them, as she wordlessly took him under his feet and together they lifted him to the bed. The cuts and bruises aside, he looked so perfect, so _whole_… She couldn't speak, barely even knew what to think or feel, couldn't begin to imagine what more serious wounds may still lay covered. There was nothing when Sybil spoke gently to him, nothing… But he was breathing, and – they'd given him morphine? Sybil seemed to think that was good. Alright, then.

There was a tag on his chest.

"Probable – spinal damage," she whispered, feeling her blood run cold. She looked desperately to Sybil, but her sister couldn't hide her look of concern quickly enough before assuring Mary it could mean anything. Anything, but nothing good, Mary was sure.

But he was _alive_. That was all; all that mattered. Her heart leapt a little when her charm fell out of his coat; he'd had it with him, at least. It had worked, her prayers had worked, he was alive and he was there and he was safe.

"I should wash him," Sybil said quietly, focussing on the practical and what needed doing, but she looked anxiously at Mary, so aware that it was her sister's husband lying between them. "This bit can be grim… Sometimes we have to cut off the clothes they've travelled in, and there's bound to be a lot of blood."

As if there were any chance that might keep her from him, now. Thankfully Sybil accepted her assistance without question, and they worked sensitively together with his body protected behind curtains. The washcloth was warm in Mary's hand, and as each part of torn, broken skin came to air she tenderly bathed him, trying not to notice how quickly the water turned a muddy red. Sybil was a rock; she never said a word, never blushed (even then), only helped and bandaged and watched over them.

But she couldn't hide her gasp of shock when they turned him, and saw his back… Mary flinched at the dark spread of bruising, so dark, the blood bursting beneath his skin in contrast to how pale he was. But all they could do was wash it, dress the wound… wait till the morning to find out more.

Under enormous duress, Mary finally relented to go home. Matthew had shown no sign of regaining consciousness yet, probably wouldn't until the morning, and so she reluctantly left him. At least she could tell the girls that he looked well, because he did, on the surface at least… She awaited the light of morning with dread in her stomach, hurrying to the hospital as early as she possibly could.

It was several hours before there was anything, anything at all.

There… Just a flicker beneath his eyelids. Mary sat up straighter beside him, rubbed his hand gently, mindful of the cuts over his knuckles. Another flicker, a twitch of his lips.

"Matthew? Darling… Can you hear me?" Her heart pounded in anticipation, in hope, she felt lightheaded and…

The softest grunt hummed between his lips. Mary looked wildly around her for Doctor Clarkson, then back to Matthew's face as his eyelids parted just a crack, just enough for his beautiful blue eyes to shine through, and it was truly at that moment the most beautiful sight she'd seen.

And then his voice, so quiet, barely even a whisper that cracked past his dried lips as he seemed to realise her presence instinctively.

"My darling…"

Through barely open, bleary eyes, Matthew saw her as if surrounded by a fog. Was he still dreaming? He dreamt of her so often… But she was… almost crying, her eyes shone, and he was… Where was he? Maybe he frowned; he couldn't tell. Everything was fogged and dim and aching, though maybe that was more his head than anything else for he still felt strangely light, almost empty… But he could feel her hand, and…

Slowly, he realised he must be in the hospital. Yes, there was Clarkson. He could only nod; his throat wouldn't seem to do what he wanted it to beyond the smallest words. Too drugged still to think whether this was a good or a bad thing, he was only aware that Mary was there, and – his back? Somehow he was on his side (he thought, at least), and Clarkson was asking if he could feel anything but there was only Mary's hands in his, what else did he need to feel? His eyes were heavy, it was such an effort to listen and mumble 'yes', or 'no'… Nothing? No, nothing, only Mary…

They wanted to know what had happed. So did he, really.

"Can't remember much," he muttered with difficulty, his voice thick and quiet. "William…"

"William's at the Abbey, darling," Mary soothed quietly. "He was wounded as well, but he's here." She glanced over him at Clarkson, who was frowning; he was massaging Matthew's back and legs, but there was no response. Mary thought of what he'd told her that morning; spinal damage, could mean loss of feeling, of movement… She swallowed and fixed her attention back on Matthew. She could feel his gentle grip on her hands; that was something, anyway.

"Got in front of me," he whispered. "Shell." He frowned, whether from pain, or confusion, or the memory, Mary wasn't sure. "Think I… landed on – something." His back, yes, but it didn't hurt so surely…

"That's alright, Captain Crawley," Clarkson quieted him. "You've done well to remember that. Now – can you feel this?"

"No…" Feel what? He shook his head. Only Mary's hands. Mary. She was here. That made him smile, or try to, at least.

He was doing so well, she thought, as her heart ached for him. The curtain shifted slightly; she saw her father peer through, his face grave with concern, the flicker of darkness as he saw Matthew's back. Pressing a gentle, careful kiss to Matthew's scarred cheek, she got up and smoothed her apron down as she went to talk to him.

"Do we know any more yet?" he asked.

Keeping her voice quiet and measured, working hard to keep her emotions in check, Mary told him all that she knew so far, though it seemed pitifully little. But soon Doctor Clarkson joined them; though his expression bore little to be hopeful about. Mary's hands twisted together as she listened… Not good news. Permanently damaged… Won't walk again. She stared at the floor, drawing in a quiet breath as she felt her father's sturdy arm around her shoulders.

"It's a shock, of course," Clarkson did his best; "and you must be allowed to grieve, but… I would only say that in all likelihood, he will regain his health. This is not the end of his life."

Mary's neck arched as the weight of his words sank upon her, and she tried to hold back her tears.

"Just the – start of a different life."

"Exactly," Clarkson nodded.

At least it was a life, she kept telling herself, even as she trembled in despair. Dear, dear Matthew, who was so independent, so energetic in both body and spirit, how could he not walk? It was too terrible to think of, and she _couldn't_ think of it, her mind resisting against the shock, every implication refusing to dawn on her. He'd need a wheelchair, he'd need help, he'd need _her_ but he wouldn't want it… But Clarkson was ushering her into his office while her father waited with Matthew; what more could there be?

"What is it?" she frowned, as the Doctor seemed to struggle over his words. She couldn't understand.

"Lady Mary, this is very difficult," he said quietly, "but there is – something else. If you'll… forgive me being direct about it… The implications of Captain Crawley's wounds means it will be – quite impossible, for you to have any more children together."

Mary reeled. But it was alright, they had Bel, and Kit, only – she couldn't think –

"There can be – _no_ more children?" She wanted to make sure she understood, understood completely. But if that was the way it must be, then –

"No… anything, I'm afraid."

Mary's glassy eyes widened as the reason for the doctor's discomfort dawned sickeningly clear on her. She could make no response as he carried on, stumbling in her presence over talk of… sexual reflexes, and… nothing, nothing at all, they could _never_…

"I quite understand," she shook her head to clear the fog in it, she seemed to be swimming behind a veil of unshed tears. She couldn't _think_, she needed Matthew, and hurried back to his side where he looked so delighted to see her, and so peaceful, that it was all she could do to keep control of herself. He didn't know, the darling thing didn't _know_ and she couldn't bear for him to. There was so much to think of before any of that.

* * *

><p>The darkness was peaceful. Better than the smoke, and gunfire, and the explosion that lit everything behind his eyes as he slammed against something hard and unrelenting, searing pain ripping through his back but then there was… Downton. Home. Mary. Their daughters, and they were calling to him, so softly…<p>

"Papa?"

"Matthew…"

He wanted to be with them, wanted to reach them, he tried and his eyes opened and… the cold, sterile ceiling of the hospital greeted him. There was only that, and the feel of a warm, slender hand in his own.

"Are you feeling a bit less groggy?" Mary smiled.

"You're here," he whispered. It was all he could think of.

"Of course I am, dear! The girls are very anxious to see you too, but I think we should wait a little until you're up to it. But they wanted you to know they're thinking of you."

He tried to smile, but wasn't sure if his lips were managing it. The thought gave him such comfort, but Mary was right; they couldn't see him like this. Not like this.

"How's William? You know he – tried to save me…"

"He isn't too good, I'm afraid." Mary watched him carefully, as he sighed miserably up at the ceiling, his jaw tensing with emotion. Of course he'd feel responsible, of course he'd care. Dear Matthew.

"Where's Mother?"

Mary smiled gently. "Suffering from poor timing. She'd visited her sister but we expect her back any time today, darling."

Matthew blinked in acknowledgement. It was hard to do much else; everything ached and stung and stiffened, but Mary's hand was warm… He frowned. Something wasn't right, he'd not been able to put his finger on it before but now he was a little more awake and he could feel… but no, he _couldn't_ feel, that was the problem… He took a gentle breath, feeling his chest protest at the effort, and shifted his eyes to Mary.

"Darling I've still – got this funny thing with my legs, I can't seem to move them… Or feel them, now that I think about it… Did – Clarkson mention what that might be?"

There was a flicker across Mary's expression that he didn't understand. A crack.

"Why don't we wait for your Mother? Then we can all talk about it."

Her smile was too bright. He knew her, he knew that smile, and a coldness settled in his gut.

"Tell me."

"Dear Matthew, you've not even been here for twenty-four hours! Nothing will have settled down yet."

He'd wondered once, before she was his wife, if she was a good liar. Looking at her now, weary though he was, he suddenly knew that she was not; and it chilled him.

"Darling. Tell me."

So she did. And she was trying, God she was trying, he could see that, but it didn't do any good. Her careful words couldn't cover the truth, couldn't stop the ache rising from his chest to his throat, as the sickening truth dawned on him, and he couldn't look at her. Blinking fiercely up at the ceiling (shielding her barely restrained tears from his view), her words drifted through to him. A _perfectly full and normal life_. The very idea seemed to mock him.

"Just not a very mobile one," he whispered bitterly. A normal life. He couldn't feel his bloody legs. Couldn't feel _anything_, not below his… waist, he realised. Oh God. _How_, in what realm of imagination could that mean a _normal_ life? He felt a hot tear slip from the corner of his eye, and his jaw clenched as he tried to keep it in check. He was weak enough already, Mary didn't need to deal with that as well. He was supposed to be the strong one, the one to take care of them, and now he lay _useless_ in a hospital bed. How could he take care of them like this? Had William sacrificed himself for _this_? His breath shortened, and he glared above him, stilling the gentle caress of his fingers against Mary's.

"Would you like some tea, darling?" she said, after what felt like a long while. "I would."

She stood up before he could think to respond, and Matthew suddenly realised how he'd upset her. His heart sank further, he didn't want to hurt her, or burden her, but… _God_, what a burden he'd be on her now. He couldn't bear it, he loved her…

"Thank you for telling me…" he called weakly after her. She turned, and now he saw how her eyes were glassy with tears, her lips trembling, and he drew a shuddering breath as he felt his own control slip. "I know I'm – blubbing, but I mean it darling, I'd much rather know… Thank you."

"Oh darling, blub all you like!" Darling Mary, she was smiling, and being so strong. "Then, when your Mother's here, we can all make plans."

Her strength somehow only made him feel worse, more pathetic than he undoubtedly was already. Was this how they would be, now? His eyes and throat stung with anguish as she turned from him. God, she _should_ be running from him, what good was he to her now?

Mary sobbed, not even bothering with tea as she hid herself in the corridor. She couldn't face him, the pain in his eyes, the way his expression had changed as he'd realised… Pain speared through her heart at how helpless he was, how helpless they _both_ were. If only there were something she could do, but there was nothing… She reminded herself (not for the first time) that none of it mattered. He was _alive_. That was it. But this was so _hard_, he was so weak and he'd always… They'd never… Dear Lord, she'd never imagined this. Of all the things, the horrors, the dreadful possibilities that had plagued her mind she'd never _once_ imagined this. And still, he didn't know all of it. How could she tell him? Maybe that could wait… Let the news of his legs settle first. They had all the time in the world, now he was safe.

Guilt plagued her the longer she hid away. She _wanted_ to be with him, he needed her… Drying her eyes on her sleeve, she found a basin and splashed her face with cool water, patting her face till she felt more composed. Fixing a smile on her face (though he could see through it, she knew, but what else could she do?), she went back to his side and perched carefully on the bed, taking his hand though it lay limply in hers. He lay silent, glancing at her but it was clearly difficult, anguish etched clear over his face.

Stroking his hand gently, she looked at his pale face, cleaner now but still unshaven, casting a dark shadow over his jaw, the cuts standing out starkly against his skin.

"I'm sorry," he eventually whispered.

"What on earth for?" she gently chided him.

He swallowed thickly, not quite meeting her eyes.

"I don't want to burden you. Mary, I don't know what to do…"

"Darling!" She gulped, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. "The only thing you need to do is get better."

"But I won't, will I. Being – stuck in a – damned – _wheelchair_ for the rest of my life isn't _better_." His chest heaved at the bitterness with which he spat the words out. God, he felt pathetic. He glanced at Mary. His darling wife, she didn't deserve _this_. She needed more, more than him. And so did their… their daughters. His heart burned as he tried to imagine playing with them in the same way from the vantage of a wheelchair. It seemed impossible. His future was impossible.

Mary's face creased in distress. "You're here, darling, that's all that matters. You must just concentrate on getting stronger for now; we'll – we'll manage." How, she didn't know, not yet. But they _would_. They must. Detail could come later, for now he just needed to recover…

"If you say so," he bit out, trying to believe her. He'd never thought he'd envy those sods who'd lost a limb. At least they could _use_ what they had left, could learn to walk again with a crutch… But this? A bitter sense of injustice stung him.

"I do."

Matthew sighed heavily, and looked at her, trying to believe her.

He _was_ trying, she could see, and it was so terribly difficult… Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. She loved him, so dearly, and he was _here_. Truly, nothing else mattered.

Her kiss was warm, sweet… He sighed against her lips, the gentlest smile curving on his own. At least… they still had this. Each other. His thumb stroked her hand appreciatively, unable yet to make any larger gesture. Whatever they had to face, maybe they could get through it, with the familiar comfort of…

He frowned, parted his lips a little as they kissed again, just lightly. He was still weak, maybe that was all it was, but… Mary's fingers tightened around his hand, he felt her stiffen. Something was wrong.

Twisting his head slightly, effectively breaking the affection, he looked at her… All of her, her beautiful neck, her lips, her… breasts, the slimness of her waist, he thought of what they'd _done_, and… nothing. He could feel nothing. Cold discomfort flared in his gut as he searched her eyes. Why had she resisted? What did she know?

"Mary…"

She blinked as if to break his gaze. "You must be exhausted, darling, why don't you –"

"Mary."

Swallowing, she shivered, terrified of the steely fear in his eyes but unable to look away. She hadn't meant to… But she'd known; to kiss him had brought everything to mind and she was terrified of the slightest intimacy for what it _could not_ lead to, now (never mind that they were in the hospital!).

Matthew gripped her hand. "What else is there, darling? Please, tell me."

Oh God, this was hard! She could see in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, that on some level he already knew. Her voice dropped to the quietest whisper as she felt her heart break.

"Well, you – you know that your – back is broken, darling, so your –"

"I understand all that, yes," he muttered, impatient for her to simply confirm the terrible prospect biting at the back of his mind. He swallowed, tried to calm down, tried again. Tried to help her. "I can't – feel anything below my waist. Nothing." Praying that she would take his lead, he chewed his lip as he waited upon her words. It felt like waiting for a death sentence.

"No, darling. Well that's it, you see. It's – very difficult, but – Doctor Clarkson told me that we – we can't have another child. There's – no chance." She wondered if he could hear her at all, or if her lips were simply moving without sound.

Oh, he heard. He understood. Perfectly.

"Because I can't –"

"Yes…"

"I see."

Matthew squeezed his eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of Mary being able to see his tears, his throat closing up and his breath shaking through his nostrils as he tried to maintain control. Not even that, not even the comfort of his wife, was left to him but more than that… He was depriving her of it. Of a lifetime of intimacy, the chance of a son, the fulfilment that she _deserved_…

"But Matthew, dear, that side of things isn't important," he heard her saying, felt her hand on his arm but what bloody good was that?

"For God's sake, it's _important_!" It was no good, his low voice shook with distress, he felt his face crumple uselessly as she looked at him with such _pity_… Of _course_ it was important. What sort of a life could they share without that comfort? He'd have to manage, but she _shouldn't have to_, she deserved more. How could he consign her to the rest of her life without it? It wasn't bloody fair, it wasn't right, she was so perfect and the thought that he could never love her in that way… could never feel her so exquisitely around him, could never feel her breaking apart at the same moment as he did, so perfectly together… It was wrong, it was absolutely _wrong_. "I'm sorry –"

"You mustn't –"

"I wish I could let you go."

"What?" Mary's expression slackened in shock, searching his face desperately for some sign of that being a sick, sick joke but there was none, only seriousness and bitter despair and conviction. She gripped his hand tighter but he tugged against it.

"I'm – stealing away your life, Mary, it isn't right… You can't have the life you – _should_ have, you – ought to have. If there was a way…"

"Don't you dare say that." Oh, she could shake him! Her heart shattered into pieces at his distress, but she would _not_ let him think that. "The life I chose is by your side, and that's where I'm going to stay –"

"You'd be better off if I were dead."

"Matthew!" Her lips parted in utter despair. He looked wretched, so wretched, but _how_ could he think that?

Oh, but he meant it. If he were dead, then she'd be free. Free to marry again, to find someone who could support her and their daughters, who deserved a better father than he could be to them now. Someone who could give her a son; but then if he were gone then Mary wouldn't _need_ a son, so she'd still be better off… His chest felt wracked with pain, and he wished she would go away, though a life without her tore at his heart. If only they could just remember him as he was…

Mary swallowed back her tears, and touched his cheek – he tried to shy away, but she wouldn't let him, and they stared at each other, eyes locked in a fierce battle of will and despair. "You must never, ever say that again," she hissed at him, with utter conviction. "Never. I could never be better off without you. Do you see? Your daughters need you. Do you know how much they long to see you? Do you have the slightest idea of how much they love you? Of how much I love you? You are alive, and that is all I care about. So don't you ever say that again. Matthew, I want _you_. That's all. _We_ want you. Your family."

Her words drilled into him, her determined gaze, and he so desperately _wanted _to believe her. His chest shook as his breath shuddered in, and out, in gasping sobs as once again he wilted under her strength, and hated himself for it.

"Oh, Mary. My darling, don't you see? I can't – I can't be a proper husband to you, I can't – be a proper father, not – not now."

She shook her head. "And what if I should just want to be with you? On any terms?"

Weariness suddenly flooded Matthew, and the distressed tension left his body. He felt so, so weak. But stronger than anything was how much he loved her, though at this moment he wished so desperately that he didn't. It would make things so much easier.

"I can't fight with you," he whispered. If she pitied him, she was right to. God, he was pathetic. And she, darling Mary, must be utterly out of her mind. "No-one sane could want to be with me, as I am now… including me." He trembled, every muscle trembled, and… "Oh God. I think I'm going to be sick –"

"It's alright, darling." At once Mary soothed him, put everything aside as she reached for a bowl, and eased him up, her hand rubbing warm and firm over his shoulders. "It's perfectly alright."

Hot bile rose in his throat and he threw it up, his body protesting against his distress and his weakness. Everything was too much. And she was so _good_; she loved him, he knew that. It was quite ridiculous. As she eased him back down against the pillows, wiped tenderly at the corner of his mouth, a bitter chuckle rose up in him.

Mary smiled gently, hoping to goodness that the darkness of his self-loathing had passed for the moment. She couldn't bear to see him like this. "What is it?"

His voice rang with bitterness. "You know, I was just thinking. It seems such a short time ago – you so nearly had a lucky escape, darling. And now look at us; you're saddled with me, an impotent cripple, stinking of sick. You've got to admit it's rotten luck."

She swallowed, and grasped his arm. "All I'll admit," she said, with complete conviction, "is that you're here. And you've survived the war. That's enough, darling, for all of us."

He shook his head, but she couldn't bear it anymore, snatching at the excuse of cleaning up his sickbowl. She loved him so much it ached, he was through the war – wasn't that what they'd all prayed for? If only he could see it, if only he could understand how much they loved him; that that was all that mattered…

As she approached the corridor, her heart lightened enormously to see Isobel, finally.

"You're back!" she greeted her mother-in-law gladly. "Thank goodness, he'll be so pleased."

Isobel nodded. "My dear, it seems you've become quite the nurse!" Her brightness fell flat, but Mary appreciated it anyway.

She shrugged. "I'm doing what I can. He needs me."

"Of course," Isobel smiled bravely, and touched her arm. Clarkson had already told her the worst, and she could only imagine the strength Mary must be shouldering. "And that means everything, Mary."

Slowly, she walked down the room to where her son lay, the sterile hospital blankets covering his bruised body. Reaching the foot of his bed, she took in his shadowed eyes, the bruising and cuts on his skin, but still he looked so perfect… only, so sad.

When his deep blue eyes met hers, shining with tears, she tried her best to brave a smile, but her heart broke as his entire face seemed to wobble and give way.

"Mother…"

"Oh, my darling boy," she hushed, coming immediately to his side.

Matthew welcomed her embrace. God, he needed his mother. She was a rock, she'd looked after Mary for him, she'd stayed, she was _here_ and he wished so desperately that she could make everything go away, just as she'd seemed to do when he was little.

But there was no making this go away. This wasn't a dream. This was real. This was his life. His life was shattered, and the pieces were splintering into his family, ruining their futures and their prospects.

God, he'd prayed to get through the war and back to them, but… must this be the cost?

He wasn't sure it was worth it. Not for them. They deserved better than the useless shell he'd become.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! Do you know the worst thing? It's my birthday today - I had to write the most depressing episode for my birthday! Good job it's also my favourite. THEIR FACES. Gah. I hope very much that you enjoyed it (if that's the right word for it), and as always would hugely appreciate any comments! (Don't let the fact that it's my birthday sway you there...! :P )_

_Thank you!  
><em>


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: _Hello again! Another midweek update. Though the timespan between episodes 2x05 and 2x06 (PBS 4 and 5)__ is very short - only a couple of months - I felt that there were some vitally important scenes that must have happened between them. So, I wanted to write a midweek chapter this week, to deal with some of those._

_I was absolutely overwhelmed by your responses to chapter 22 - it meant an awful lot to me, that having been my favourite episode, and it was lovely to get so many __encouraging messages on my birthday; so thank you, so much! Masses of thanks, as always, to EOlivet for the polish, she's an absolute star!_

_With that, onwards... :D_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Twenty-Three<span>**

Though the August sunshine left the air bright, thick and muggy, Mary felt terribly cold. She'd never thought she'd dread going to see Matthew. But today, she did.

Oh, she wanted to be with him… Of course she wanted to be with him, she hardly wanted to leave his side. She loved him, so completely. But he was so weak, so despondent, and she always left him with a bitter lump in her throat and overcome by exhaustion and despair. While she'd long dreaded the prospect of him coming home a broken man, she'd somehow never imagined that Matthew himself could be so utterly _miserable_ to be home, alive, and safe. It had been a few days, now, and already she felt her strength weakening. But, it didn't matter – she would be there. He needed her, whether he wanted her or not. She would be there.

Only today, she really was dreading it. She wiped her eyes again, hoping they were not too red-rimmed.

Entering the ward, her heart ached again at the sight of him, just lying there – as he ever would, now. Not there, always, not in that hospital bed, but – always lying, or sitting. Never again would she see him stand up, or swing their daughters into the air, or sweep her off her feet as he carried her to their bed… Never. Today he was sitting up a little, though – that might have cheered him a little. She rubbed her hands briskly together and took a breath.

"Hello darling," she said lightly, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek as she perched beside him. "You're looking quite well!" There was a little more colour in his cheeks than yesterday, though he still looked drawn and weak.

"Am I?" he shrugged, turning his head away when she kissed him. He heard her quiet sigh, and closed his eyes. She'd taken his hand, now, but he made no reciprocal gesture, only just managing to stop himself from tugging his hand away. It would hurt her, he knew; but every touch now just seemed to taunt him, to remind him of what he could never give her.

"Mm. Oh! I just spoke to Doctor Clarkson. He's arranging for a specialist – John Coates – to come and give a second opinion on your spine as soon as he can. Papa's asked for him, from London. Just to make sure, darling, there's a chance still –"

Matthew glanced despairingly at her. "Oh, Mary." While part of him would have loved to hope, a darker part didn't want to. If he didn't hope, he couldn't be crushed when it proved fruitless. He frowned, then, seeing how dull her eyes were and recognising the effort behind her bright tone. "What is it?"

Her lips pressed together, as her eyes flicked over his face. She'd wanted to settle him a little first, prepare him somehow. Give him something to cling to before breaking it, but clearly he would refuse it. She sighed, and moistened her lips again, frowning in consolation, absently rubbing his hand.

"It's William," she breathed softly.

She didn't need to say any more. She felt her brow tighten as his eyes closed and he slumped back against the pillow, a darkness coming over him as he drew in a shuddering breath. His whispered voice, when it came, was shaky and thick with emotion.

"Oh God."

"I'm so sorry. He married Daisy, before the end – Edith said he was very peaceful. Darling you mustn't –"

"Blame myself?" He cut her off bitterly, his forehead knotting into a frown as he whispered through clenched teeth. "I don't. I know it wasn't my _fault_. But the fact remains that – if he hadn't thrown himself in the way, he – might still be alive, and I wouldn't be like _this_ –"

"_Might_, dear, you can't possibly know that –"

"I wish he hadn't bothered_._"

The worst thing, Mary thought as she blinked away bitter tears with her eyes raised to the ceiling, was how calm he sounded. How sure. It wasn't a burst of emotion, he'd _thought_ about it.

"Well," she gasped past the painful lump in her throat, "I'm grateful. I'm not _glad_, but I'm desperately grateful, and so is your mother, and so is everyone who loves you."

"You don't understand –"

"Oh, _Matthew!_" She clutched his had fiercely between both of her own, her breath ragged with unconcealed tears. She couldn't do it any longer, couldn't bear him up on her own. Tears finally broke, openly, down her cheeks. Her distress forced his eyes to her and he watched her, torturously knowing that he was the cause of her sorrow. He deserved to feel rotten, he _should_ hate himself, for how cruelly he was treating her – but that was precisely why she'd be better off. He was damaging.

She pleaded with him with quiet, desperate whispers, an impassioned plea to remember his love. "_You_ don't understand! For goodness' sake, _yes_ it will be difficult, and I can't – darling, I can't imagine how wretched you feel – but do you know, Matthew, to rather have died is terribly selfish of you!"

"_Selfish_?" he spluttered in frustration, his own voice breaking in response to hers. "Mary, it's only because I love you so much –"

"Oh, do shut up!" she bit out harshly, gripping his hand until he almost winced. "Yes, it's selfish. How easy it would be for you! You'd have no more pain, or shame, nothing at all that could hurt you. You say you love us, and I believe you do, darling – I know you want the best for us. Has it occurred to you that I don't want what's _best_? I'd rather –" She broke, her expression softening into a plea as she implored him. "I'd rather have you, as – as helpless as you might be, darling, _I_ will help you – than be without you for the sake of the chance of being provided for by anyone else. I'd rather our daughters grow up knowing their own Papa, who loves them, rather than with a stranger with two working legs for their _own good_… We'd rather have _you_, Matthew, whatever – state you're in, than live without you at all."

Her attack spent, she wilted suddenly, gasping slightly for breath. Matthew looked at her, her strained, beautiful face. As though a veil had been lifted, he suddenly _saw_ her; the weariness in her expression, the care, the shadows under her eyes that painted a picture of a mother's devotion, a wife's love.

"Oh, my darling…" he whispered, filled now with shame rather than any bitterness. "I'm so sorry. I never thought –"

"No, you didn't," she smiled, wiping the errant tears from his scarred face. "You see, I've tried living without you, and I must say I don't care for it at all!" A gentle, helpless laugh escaped her lips.

And in that moment, he realised. For their entire marriage… he'd been at war. He'd left her, right from the start, made her live a life without him. And that life was a dream to him; a beautiful sort of fantasy that had kept him going through the long months of war. She'd waited for him, loved him, gave life to their daughters and loved them and cared for them in his absence, and she'd never let them forget him. War had tainted their relationship, he realised, from its very beginning – that intense rush of desperation, those heady days together had always been weighted by his departure. It had coloured it all, and only now did he see how truly, how very deeply, Mary loved him. And he had never loved her more.

Unable to express any of this to her, his eyes shone, and he broke apart as he pulled her awkwardly into his arms, allowing himself to welcome her embrace as he whispered apologies and love to her over and over again.

* * *

><p>Several days later, Matthew found himself again under scrutiny, this time being prodded and assessed by Doctor Coates, summoned by the Earl from London. He'd grown wearily accustomed to it by now; had resigned himself to the touch of others' hands on him, unfeeling and clinical and so damned <em>necessary<em>. He sighed, and shook his head.

"No…" he muttered, he couldn't feel that either. There was something terrifying, really, about being completely unaware of half of his body; though now the initial fear and despair had passed to a sort of morbid fascination with it, as he lay testing it, nipping at his skin, digging his nails into his thigh to try and get _anything_ before growing too frustrated. While very aware that they were _his_ legs, for them to seem so… detached, was horribly disconcerting.

Mary, he knew – and Mother, and Robert and everyone, really – was hoping that a fresh pair of eyes in Coates would lend some hope. Maybe Clarkson was wrong. Maybe. But Matthew wasn't sure he could bear 'maybe'. If it was hopeless, he would learn to deal with it, because he'd have to. If there was only a slim hope… Somehow, that would be even harder.

The examination over, Matthew re-dressed and propped up against his pillows once more with Mary by his side, the two doctors retired to Clarkson's office.

"I don't think it's conclusive, you know," Coates declared, rubbing his hands together. "Severe bruising of the spine certainly could cause such a paralysis… And could naturally heal, given time."

Clarkson frowned. "I suppose it's _possible_, but I wouldn't want to hedge my bets."

"Well, no." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Coates sighed. "But to my eyes, there was nothing to prove transsection – little to indicate it, even. I'd tend to saying it was whole, from the feel of it –"

"Bearing in mind the swelling, though… It's very hard to say."

"I think that's pretty much the sum of it, actually!" The two men stood for a moment in a sort of silent truce. "Still, with the permanence of the injury by _no_ means certain… Don't you think the man deserves a little hope? They've a family after all, haven't they?"

"Yes, but I must say, I… disagree." Clarkson pursed his lips determinedly.

"Beg pardon, old chap?"

"I don't believe we should tell them your conclusions; or, lack of. I understand it's hope, but it's a very slim hope indeed. I rather think Captain Crawley would be happier to accept things one way or the other, than pinning hopes on a future that may never happen."

Coates laughed, and shook his head. "Good God, man, what a depressing thought! What about his wife, and family? Surely they'd appreciate knowing there's a chance."

Clarkson shrugged. "With all due respect, I don't agree. Look, I – I know the family. I've been their doctor for years, Lady Mary's since she was a little girl. They need to move on with their lives, now, and accept his circumstances as they stand _now_. If they have any doubt over it, that job will be that much harder to do. I really think that's wisest."

Perhaps, Coates thought, he was right. They discussed it a while longer, and though he wasn't at all convinced that Captain Crawley's wounds _were_ permanent, he finally relented to the other doctor's greater familiarity with the family. They couldn't be sure, and if he thought they'd deal better with certainty… Well, he probably knew best.

Still, it was difficult when he found himself faced with an anxious and persistent Lady Mary as he went to leave. She touched his arm, asking him with breathless earnest.

"Can you tell us anything more? Is there a chance?"

He hesitated only a moment, catching Clarkson's eye beside him. Though it went against every one of his own instincts, he finally relented and put on that well-practised, neutral expression of professional sympathy.

"I'm afraid, Lady Mary, that I really can tell you no more than Clarkson already has." It wasn't _quite_ a lie; a fact he chose to console himself with at the elegant young woman's crestfallen expression.

"It is – absolutely permanent, then, the damage?"

Coates sighed deeply, masking his discomfort. "There's nothing to indicate otherwise. I am sorry, that I can't give you any more."

"I see." Mary pressed her lips into a cool, sad, polite smile. "Well, thank you; we appreciate you having made the journey."

Matthew took the news remarkably well, his expression a mask of stoicism as he calmly listened to the doctor's opinion. Oh, everyone was very kind, and kept telling him how sorry they were, but he shrugged off their sympathies.

This was the way it must be. And though it pained him, angered him, shamed him – unable to dress himself, bathe himself, move himself from his prison of a bed – at least now, he knew with a depressing certainty that this was simply it, and there was nothing else he could do than accept it.

* * *

><p>The next day, as Mary sat with him again (she so rarely left his side, even if they didn't talk; they didn't need to), Matthew had assumed an air of calm resignation. Neither of them had said anything for half an hour or so, but it had not been an uncomfortable, bitter silence as it had to begin with.<p>

"I'm terribly bored, you know," Matthew eventually muttered. He was sick of staring at these walls, these beds, these people who were just as sick as him. His day was an endless, awful routine of being washed and dressed and tested and dosed and washed again after the medication made him sick. He felt perpetually dirty, smelly – stagnant. Thankfully the nurses seemed to have relented those more intimate tasks to Mary; though she couldn't manage all of it herself, if he wanted to move, or sit…

"I'm sure you are," Mary smiled softly, flexing her fingers where they lay on his arm. She glanced toward the window, where dust motes played in the warm sun shining through. "Bel told me this morning she was making something for you! Another picture, I think. So there, darling, you've something to look forward to! She did ask me to tell you, when I came. You see, they think of you constantly."

Matthew chuckled drily. "Dear thing. Darling, you're here so long you must hardly see them… You'll be missing them."

"I think I am, a little!" It was true; for this last week she'd left for the hospital so often before they were awake, and returned only once they were tucked up for the night. She did miss them; but at least she could see them every day… How she wished Matthew could.

"I wish you'd go to them, you shouldn't leave them so much just for me. They need their Mama," he smiled weakly.

"I wish they could come to you!" Mary exclaimed, inclining her head lightly. "They need their Papa just as much – they certainly _want_ their Papa – especially now that he is here."

A dark frown crossed Matthew's face as he withdrew into himself.

"You mustn't bring them here, Mary. I won't have them seeing me like – like this."

"I know, I –" She sighed, trailing off in frustration. His stoicism was all very well, and she could understand him not wanting their daughters to see him so vulnerable and weak, she really could – but they missed their father, and he was _here_, and she was sure they could cheer him…

Glancing up, then, she caught sight of Isobel crossing the ward, and called her over. "Isobel," she said, her tone bubbling with an idea. "Has Doctor Clarkson said anything to you about getting Matthew up and about, soon?"

"Certainly! Now you're a little stronger," Isobel smiled warmly at her son; little good though it did. "In fact we could try tomorrow, if you like. Nothing much, I imagine, but I see no reason why not, nor does Clarkson. See how you feel in it."

"I shan't be able to feel much in it, I'd imagine," Matthew grumbled obstinately; then softened a little at their expressions. "But, I… would like to get out of this damned bed. Yes." Not that he'd be much less confined in a wheelchair than a bed; but at least that would afford a change of scenery.

Mary smiled, and patted his arm. "Good. Then, darling, perhaps – if you're up to it, another day soon, we can take you into the garden here, and – the girls could come and see you."

Instinctively, Matthew wanted to argue. He was degraded, they mustn't see him, not so weak, they wouldn't understand… But – Mary looked so hopeful. And he missed them, _God_ he missed them. He swallowed, and his head inclined into the slightest nod.

"Yes, I – well, perhaps."

* * *

><p>As it happened, Matthew's first encounter with the wheelchair was not a smooth one. Clarkson had assured him there was no cause for difficulty; after all, what difference was there to lying in a bed and sitting in a chair?<p>

However, with his mind still drugged and tired, it hadn't occurred to him quite how difficult _getting_ into the blasted thing would be. Or how humiliating.

When he'd been put in that bed, he'd been mercifully unconscious. He was a grown man, his legs a dead weight, of _course_ it was no simple matter. It took both the strong arms of Clarkson and Mary (he refused to let anyone else help), and another nurse to hold his legs to stop them simply falling uselessly and banging awkwardly. Three people to get him into a bloody wheelchair. It was unbearable, and he scowled darkly through Clarkson's reassurances that it _would_ get easier, in time he'd be able to slide himself over with only a little assistance, but Matthew was deaf to all that.

Mary was only glad that she couldn't see his face as, under the watchful eye of Isobel, she carefully guided him down the room to the corridor. They needn't go outside, not today. But it was a jerky, uncertain start as she adjusted to the weight, and Matthew cursed, and then as they went over the threshold into the corridor the footplate caught on the doorjamb which flung Matthew's foot helplessly off. Mary winced at his loud, frustrated exclamation, practically feeling the anger seething from his taut shoulders.

"Darling, I'm sorry –"

"For God's sake, just get on with it," he grunted, lifting his leg at the knee to get his foot back into place. Blasted, _useless_ thing. Mary bit her lip, and set off again more slowly, up and down the corridor a few times before Matthew had had enough. Once more, he was feeling the pain of a loss of control, this time over his own pathetic, broken body, control that he would never regain.

His expression was dark and drawn as they hoisted him back into bed. Next time, Isobel promised him, it would be easier. Next time. He shrugged Mary's hand away and glowered for the rest of the afternoon.

Aside from his erratically depressive moods, though, his health was recovering well. Clarkson brought this up when Robert visited a day or two later, as they all sat in the hospital's day room, the windows thrown open against the muggy heat.

"I do think, Captain Crawley, that in the next week or so certainly we can think about moving you to the Abbey."

"Well that's wonderful news," Mary breathed, clasping Matthew's hand as he simply inclined his head in appreciation of the fact. Robert beamed at the prospect.

"That's an improvement, then, how splendid." He turned to Matthew and Mary. "I know the hospital is more Cora's realm, but we have been discussing it. Of course you'll have a private room, Matthew, we'll find something on the ground floor…"

"I appreciate that, thank you," Matthew nodded.

Robert smiled. "Of course, dear boy. I know it'll make things easier for Mary coming to see you, with the girls –"

"What on earth do you mean?" Mary's indignant exclamation earned her raised eyebrows from the three men.

"Mary, dear! Only that –"

"Papa, I have spent four years living with Matthew elsewhere; I certainly don't intend for that to continue now! If Matthew must live at the Abbey then so must I, and that's an end to it. You can't tell me Mama would object to the girls taking the nursery. Isobel will bear it, I'm sure."

Robert frowned. "My dear, I understand, but you know your old room has been taken now for –"

"I will be with Matthew." Her tone brooked no argument, no discussion of the matter, even. To Mary, it was unthinkable that she should not be with him. She felt his hand squeeze hers gently, sensed his quiet smile beside her, then addressed her father who looked a little taken aback. "I'm sorry, Papa, but I won't accept anything else."

Clarkson, who'd watched this exchange with some amusement, raised an eyebrow as he stood up. He'd seen Lady Mary's stubbornness well enough over this past week. With good wishes, he left them to arrange the details.

* * *

><p>That Friday, Mary crouched in front of her daughters, smoothing Catherine's dress, tucking a curl behind Mabel's ear.<p>

"Papa's better now?" Mabel asked, smiling happily.

"Much, my darling. And so looking forward to seeing you both!" Mary's face shone as Catherine clapped excitedly, bouncing a little where she sat. Picking her gently up, Mary rose to her feet, Mabel clutching her skirt in comfort as they went out to the waiting car.

Once Mabel was settled in, Mary beside her with Catherine curled on her lap, she spoke to them more seriously. "Papa is a lot better now, but he was _so_ brave fighting to keep us safe that he's earned a little help, you see? So he has a very nice chair, a special one–"

"Like Gran'mama's rock chair?"

"Oh, much nicer than Grandmama's rocking chair, Bel – it has wheels!" Mary paused, moistening her lips as she wiped Catherine's chin with a handkerchief, which the little girl promptly started to chew.

"Soun's fun!"

"Well, maybe if Papa's in a very good mood he may let you sit on his lap for a ride! But you must ask very nicely."

"Of course I ask nice! Let's, Kit – be fun!"

Catherine simply babbled in response to Mabel's excitement, and Mary smiled down at them both.

"There. But, darlings, it's such a special chair that Papa must stay in it, see? All the time. So you mustn't be surprised if he won't stand up, or upset, because he needs to stay sitting in it. Alright?"

Mabel considered this, Catherine watching her lead to follow eagerly, a little frown of concentration on her face. Finally, the elder girl nodded decidedly.

"Alright, Mama."

"Good girl, darling."

Waiting in the hospital garden, enjoying the feel of sunshine on his neck and proper, clean clothes for the first time in over a week, Matthew allowed himself to be wheeled down the path by his mother.

"Are you sure you won't mind?" he asked for the tenth time that afternoon.

"Don't be silly, of course I won't," she insisted. "The house will be very quiet, but I like a little peace. I shall miss them, naturally, but of course they must all be with you."

"I know." He sighed gently, squinting down the path in the sunshine. It was very odd, but he was quickly growing used to it, the sensation of having a conversation with somebody always behind him. It afforded him a sense of security, almost. "Mother, d'you know, I –"

"_Papa_!"

Matthew's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair as the familiar little cry ripped through his heart, his lips parting as a small figure pelted towards him, golden curls bobbing as Mary followed more sedately behind, a smaller figure curled against her chest.

He laughed, tears filling his eyes as Bel threw herself forwards – and stopped, suddenly, almost falling over with the sudden motion as she peered thoughtfully up at him.

"Papa – hello! Um… Are you better? We's were worried."

Matthew could barely see her, and he felt his lips and cheeks tremble as he held a hand out to her, and she clutched it to her soft cheek.

"Hello, darling," he whispered raggedly. "I'm much, much better for seeing you."

Mabel grinned happily, and flung herself over his knees affectionately as he rubbed her back.

"Glad you's back, Papa," she mumbled. Matthew picked her up into his lap – God, he couldn't feel her weight there – and hugged her against his chest, kissing her softly.

"So am I, Bel." And it suddenly struck him, holding her... Oh, the permanence of his situation had occurred to him of course, but not quite like _this_. "And do you know… I'm never going away again. So you're stuck with me, now!"

"Shan't mind," she giggled, and sat up to press a wet, fond kiss to his cheek. "Oh! Kit – Papa, excuse – here."

Matthew dimly heard his mother chuckling behind him as Mabel scrambled off then stretched up to tug at Mary, urging her to lower Catherine into Matthew's lap. Then Mary stood back, exchanging a tearful smile with Matthew – he was smiling, _really_ smiling, his face entirely lit up with joy. Love seemed to burst out of her heart, it couldn't contain it, the simple ecstasy to see him together with their daughters… _happy_.

"Darling –"

"Shush, Papa!" Mabel ordered, and put her hands under Catherine's shoulders. "See what Kit does – go on Kit!"

She pushed her sister gently forwards until Catherine could clutch at the lapels of Matthew's jacket, which she used to awkwardly pull herself to her little feet, standing on Matthew's knees. Mary gasped, touching his shoulder – she'd not thought – Catherine had only discovered that she could do this several days ago, and was grinning proudly as a little giggle passed her lips.

Matthew stared at his daughter, her face level with his own as she stood on trembling legs, her splayed hands pressing on his chest for support. His daughter, taking her first tiny, tentative steps; just learning to stand, just as he must learn to do without. His chest ached, his eyes stung, and something between a sob and a laugh broke from his throat.

"My darling, darling girl," he whispered fiercely as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing tender kisses to her dark hair. "Oh, my darling girl!"

He felt Mary's arms come around them, his mother's hand on his shoulder, and… saw Mabel hugging his knees (though that, he couldn't feel). His heart ached with shame, abominable shame that he'd ever thought he could leave them. What a bloody fool he'd been. He loved them, and knew without a doubt now that they loved him, that they _would_ love him, always. He was so sorry, _so_ sorry.

"It's alright, darling," Mary whispered against his ear, as though somehow she could see all this etched on his face. "We'll be alright."

And for the first time, he believed her.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading :) I do hope you enjoyed it; your support is so greatly appreciated. Thank you!_


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: _Happy Monday in Hawaii! (or somewhere...)_

_Enormous, heartfelt thank yous to everyone who's reviewed, alerted, favourited or elsewhere mentioned this fic. It means such a lot to me. I feel like we're coming into the home stretch now, which is a very odd feeling... I don't quite want it to end! But we've a few chapters yet. _

_Without further ado, allow me to present (with thanks to EOlivet for her encouragement and polish!) ATiL's 2x06. There's a shoutout to Kavan's review for ch.23 somewhere, just so you know..._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter Twenty-Four<span>**

The makeshift dressing room next to their bedroom was small, but adequate. Mary smiled in the mirror at Anna behind her, placing her earrings back into a delicately ornate jewellery box as the maid braided her hair.

"Thank you," she cursorily murmured. She began to rub lightly scented cream over her hands.

Anna glanced up, meeting her smile.

"You're welcome, Milday. If I might – I know it's not the best of circumstances, but – it is a pleasure to serve you again!"

"Oh, Anna! You did always know how to make me feel better." They'd been at the Abbey for a week, now, and though Matthew seemed to improve every day it was still – so very, very hard.

Unwilling to dwell on that, though, she quickly shifted the focus from herself. "And what about you, and Mr. Bates? Is any of that looking better, now?"

"There's – been no developments for a while. She's laying low, but – we don't know why. Mr. Bates thinks she must have something plotting, but I'm trying to hope that if she were goin' to do something, she'd have already done it."

Tying off the braid, Anna stepped back, twisting her hands. How furious Lady Mary would be if she knew – but maybe, if nothing had come of it yet – maybe it would be alright. They'd thought, and thought, unable to come up with any reason why Vera had not yet sold the story. But then, she reasoned, enough people knew of it – in London, and among the servants' circles there – if it weren't Vera, it might be anyone, so – well. They could only continue to pray that she would hold off.

She forced a brighter smile to her lips. "Mr. Bates is goin' up again next week, to see her – and the lawyers. So maybe there'll be some more hope, then."

"I do hope so!" Mary eased to her feet. "Well, thank you. That will be all for this evening."

Anna nodded, and left her. Inhaling deeply, Mary padded to the adjoining door, opened it just a crack and knocked softly upon it. "Darling?"

His voice floated through. "Yes, I'm ready."

She slipped in, smiled at her husband and slid into bed beside him. Matthew lay on his back – always on his back, now, it was easier – and she curled into him, her arm over his chest and her leg hooking familiarly over his. To her, he felt just the same… Still warm, still alive, still so comforting. With her head nestled into his shoulder, her eyes closed as she felt him kiss the top of her hair, his arm fitting snugly around her shoulders.

They'd never used to be this way; knocking and waiting… But Matthew's pride was still _just_ too great (even after all she'd done for him, all she did for him every day now) to allow her to witness him being lifted into bed by somebody else.

Once she was here, though, in his arms… Sometimes it made him forget, the warm weight of her on his chest was just as it ever had been, the sensation of her breath on his neck, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat… But then at the same time, it made him so painfully, painfully aware of what was _not_ as it ever had been.

Before, his hand would have started to stroke lightly up, and down her back… like that. His other hand would find the softness of her cheek – there – his finger would play over her lips, she'd nip at it, wriggle gently closer to him… Her fingers would lace through his, she'd kiss them, take them into her mouth to taunt him as his hand moved over her back in a more deliberate caress, then… lower, over her hips, bunching up her nightdress… Her toes ran softly, lightly up along his calf (did they do so, now? He wasn't sure), her lips finding his neck, then in a warm murmur she shifted, more, rolled, covering his body with hers as their lips met in a warm, passionate clash… _That_ he was sure of, _that,_ he could feel…

It was inevitable, and it was happening now… Her hands slid into his hair, he pulled her down, closer to him, as if… _somehow_, it could elicit something, but… She squirmed over him, sighing contentedly into his mouth as he kissed her, and kissed her… Oh, it wasn't the same but she was still _delicious_ and maybe, _perhaps_, this could still be right.

Her breath was hot in his mouth as their tongues duelled and tasted and they couldn't get enough; Matthew's hands slid down, an unconscious pattern of memory, down over her hips, the swell curve, slipping under the dragged up hem of her nightdress and… _there_. She gasped, helplessly bucked against his fingers, writhed higher up his body to ease his access as he stroked, dipped in, slipped out, circled, in again, another finger, in, and out, and around in a blinding, taunting dance that crumbled her to a hot, shuddering vision above him. An ache pooled in Matthew's gut; pleasure, longing, loss… He missed that fire, that feeling that he _should_ have but even so, her reaction to him was just as thrilling as it always had been.

Sensing her arousal, her building need, he groaned and tugged her nightdress up and off over her head. She flung it carelessly away. His hands swept appreciatively over her as she knelt over him; teasing desperately over her breasts… She grasped one with her own hand, trapping him there in an indulgent caress as his other glided down, down her smooth, warm abdomen, finger dipping into her navel and down… Matthew watched his own hand in breathless fascination as it slipped between her legs, saw her hips shudder, heard her gasp, whimper in pleasure as again he stroked… dipped… plunged inside her, twisting, stroking, caressing… She was powerful and helpless, dominating him and yet utterly at his mercy, soft moans escaping her lips as hot, blistering fire engulfed her. Her hand shot from his hand at her breast to brace on the bed-head, steadying herself, her other clutching at his arm, his hair, stroking over his cheek, it was too much as she trembled above him, it _ached_ so deliciously…

Somehow, she'd moved further and further, higher and higher, unaware of anything but his hands on her, fingers _in_ her, the heat and the shivers making her head swim as she forgot everything and then… His hand dropped from her breast to her hip and he eased her forward, guided her, pulled her hips down, and… As his tongue touched her, her back arched wildly, a low cry wrenching from her throat. Matthew groaned in response, his tongue and lips hot against her, hot against him and around his fingers; he'd never… _never_ imagined it could be like this but she was above him, over him, as he closed his eyes and gave her everything that he could offer her. Faster, quicker, hotter… His mouth worked over her, fingers in her, tongue against her, licking and sucking and stroking in response to her building groans, he could feel her legs tremble either side of him as his free hand held her, supported her. Mary's palms were against the wall, then her cheek, it was _glorious_ and she wanted him and – too much – every sensation crashed together into blinding ecstasy, her throat choked back a raw scream of pleasure as the intensity climaxed and broke over her, her shoulders heaving and limbs tightening and relaxing as slowly, languidly, she regained enough strength to shakily ease back down beside him.

"Oh, darling…" she murmured softly against his neck. He tickled softly at her, and she rolled to lean on his chest, gazing up at him. A gentle smirk was playing at his lips, his lips that glistened still from her very essence, but… there was something missing, now; that dark, glimmering light of desire in his eyes. He was wonderful, he was a darling to her, he set her alight, but…

When she suddenly broke into a sob, Matthew was quite severely taken aback.

"Darling, what is it?" he shushed, rubbing her back, easing her up to look at him properly. His brow knitted into a concerned frown. What had he… had she not liked it? He hadn't thought, there wasn't much else he could _do_, but they'd never done it _quite_ like – _that_, before; and he worried.

"It's not –" she gasped, feeling herself flush with shame. "It's not _fair_, Matthew!" She buried her face into his neck, unable to look at him. The cotton of his pyjamas suddenly felt rough against her bare skin. How could she abandon herself, so completely, so _selfishly_, when he could not?

Matthew's lips pursed, feeling his eyes sting as hot guilt washed over him at her distress. He hugged her closer to him.

"I… It doesn't matter, you know," he whispered breathlessly. "Just because I – I can't – you shouldn't have to be deprived of –"

"It isn't the same!" Mary sobbed. Rarely in her life had she felt so utterly, utterly wretched and ashamed. She pulled away from him, picking her nightdress up from where she'd wantonly thrown it, pulling it back on before she came into his embrace once more. He looked so hurt, so confused, and it only made her feel worse.

"I want you to be happy," he breathed, his voice cracking and breaking.

Mary sniffed, nodded. "I know. I know you do, and darling that was –" She couldn't express it; only smiled tearfully, touched his cheek to reassure him that it was not _that_ which had upset her. "But it isn't _right_. I can't – I can't –" She moistened her lips, pressing a chaste kiss to his as she struggled to tell him, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "You make me feel – _wonderful_, my dearest, but I cannot enjoy it alone."

Matthew swallowed uncomfortably. "Do you – do you think I take no pleasure from it, to make you feel that way? Because my darling, I –"

"Oh, Matthew… I know – I know you do. But it – isn't, it – _can't _be the same."

How could she put it into words? He set her body ablaze, alight, but he could never feel the same way, now. She could never give it back to him, could never make him shatter and lose his mind in the same way, could never feel that deep, indescribable, perfectly beautiful bond of them joining and uniting and connecting on an impossibly deep level, in mind and body, ever again… And she would not, _could_ not, experience the bliss of ecstasy without him. It could never be the same.

Though she couldn't say it, Matthew understood. They held each other, wept together, apologised and excused and convinced themselves that it would be, it _must_ be, alright. But Mary determined, then, that she could never allow herself the temptation of that heady desire, that flush of feeling, she couldn't risk it for both their sakes.

At first, as they kissed, she would part from him as soon as she felt it. But he was so _handsome_ and his lips so soft, so insistent and gentle, she couldn't bear her need for him. Gradually, their kisses became briefer, less frequent, less deep, because they _couldn't_… Until all of a sudden, they seemed barely to kiss at all any more, or touch beyond the simple comfort of their hands twined together; the temptation of any other caress becoming too much, too taunting…

But it was alright. None of that mattered; they loved each other, they loved their daughters, Matthew's health was rebuilding and he was _here_ and safe… It was alright.

* * *

><p>By November, they'd settled into their new life. And it was alright. Each morning, just as this morning, Mary took Matthew out around the grounds, when the sky was bright and clear. Released from her lessons until lunchtime, Mabel skipped alongside, running ahead then waiting for them, then skipping back again (the beautiful rope was still a novelty to the little girl). Catherine perched on Matthew's knees, standing and leaning on his chest to look over his shoulder at Mary, or the other soldiers they passed.<p>

"I shall have arms like Jack Johnson, if I'm not careful!" Mary chuckled.

Matthew twisted slightly. "I'm strong enough to wheel myself, darling…"

"I'll be the judge of that!" She smiled indulgently at the back of his head, leaning down to press a fond kiss to his hair.

"May I try?" Mabel blinked beseechingly up at her parents, who in turn gazed down at her in shock.

Mary's laugh sparkled. "You can try, darling, but you're not strong enough all alone – I'll help, shall I?"

"'right."

Mabel offloaded her skipping rope to Matthew, who allowed Catherine to play with it, clacking the wooden handles distractedly together. He heard the little shuffle behind him, smiling as he imagined Mary stepping back, and Mabel pushing all her weight against the chair with some subtle assistance from her Mama.

As they might have predicted, it didn't take long for Mabel to tire of this. Instead, she begged Matthew to let her walk Catherine for a little while – her sister was getting ever so good at it, now!

"Of course," Matthew said softly, easing Catherine to the ground where Mabel took her hands, encouraging the younger girl to toddle hesitantly towards her. "Just – don't wander far, darling – remember Kit's not as quick as you –"

"I _know_, Papa!"

"Bel, don't speak to your father like that."

"Sorry Mama…"

Matthew laughed fondly, watching them carefully as Mary slowed to keep pace. For several minutes, they went along in contented silence. Mary wondered what he was thinking; there was so little one could tell from the back of his head. But, she supposed, at least she had that – could see the slump, or the tension in his shoulders, the straightness of his back – it was amazing, how much of his mood she could tell from it. He didn't leave her guessing for long, though.

"I keep thinking about William," he muttered eventually.

"Oh, darling…"

"No, I – how he should be here. Not – exactly instead of me, but – his sacrifice should be rewarded. He was the brave one," he sighed.

Perhaps it was inappropriate to; but Mary smiled. She was glad, terribly glad that Matthew had at least accepted William's sacrifice, now.

"You were _both_ brave. And, it has been rewarded," she quietly assured him, squeezing his shoulder. "It's rewarded every day, in you being with us."

He smiled gently, reaching up to clasp her hand.

"I know. I am – _Bel_! You must be careful –" He sighed, Catherine's plaintive wail reaching his ears as Mabel went a little too fast and they tripped. Mary stopped, gathered their younger daughter up and passed her back into Matthew's lap. He stopped her, looking sincerely up at her before she disappeared from his view again. "I am grateful, now, darling."

* * *

><p>For a few days, the foul November weather confined them indoors. Matthew had truthfully never been more bored in his life. He'd always been doing <em>something<em> – working, then more recently fighting, never taking a break for more than a few days. And even then, he'd always kept himself busy; visiting places and people, bicycle rides, picnics… But _this_ was interminable. Days and weeks and months of _sitting_; though Mary did her best to distract him.

They read, often; taking refuge by the fireside in the small library. Sometimes, Mary encouraged him to join the other soldiers, but it made him feel strangely out of place. Not quite here, not quite there – in fact, the whole situation was in many ways unsettling. Being indoors, as well, served as a perpetual reminder to him – the stairs he could not climb, the soldiers ruined as he was – if they were out, just he and Mary, sometimes with the girls as well (he couldn't even visit their nursery, now) – he could put all that aside.

When the weather cleared, then, they took the first opportunity for a walk (Matthew had quickly learned to swallow his frustration every time someone unthinkingly suggested it). The wind was brisk, but the sky bright; still, they didn't wander far from the house.

"No, I can't think why," Mary sighed. Edith had been acting ever so strangely towards her in the last day or so; cagey, withdrawn, back to the old snipes they'd exchanged as younger women, and Mary didn't understand it. "If anything we've been closer this last year, or so; maybe –"

"Darling, can we stop?" he suddenly cut over her. "I'd much rather see your face when we talk…"

Mary laughed, and dutifully guided him to a spot beside a nearby bench, perching herself as close to him as she could and reaching over to take his hand. It _was_ better this way.

Matthew smiled, and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "I suppose it was easier to get on with her when you lived apart," he wondered. Their home was so close, and yet they were not at home. It had taken some getting used to for all of them, the (albeit) small family moving back into the Abbey.

"I think so!"

"I know she works hard for all the convalescents here, I – hope she doesn't think I'm upsetting the balance. Getting special treatment, and all that."

Mary frowned, affronted. "You _should_ get special treatment!"

"Yes, but I wouldn't want to –"

"Darling. You're our father's heir, and my husband. Of _course_ you are different. If Edith doesn't like it –"

Matthew hushed her, and sighed. "Well… Still. I know I'm a – burden –"

"Don't say –"

"No, I am. To you – to everyone." Peering against the wind and the pale, bright sun, he shook his head. "If I weren't already married to you, darling, if there were a chance to save you I should – jump into the nearest river."

Her laugh made him smile. "And how would manage that, without my help?"

"Well, I'd – get you to push me in." He chuckled with her, and swung her hand lightly between them. He had been joking, really he had, but it did bother him still. "No, seriously. You know I – don't really think like that now, but – I do want you to know how much I appreciate you. Everything you do for me, darling – I'm only sorry that you have to."

Mary sighed, frowning gently at him. "You know I'd do it even if I didn't _have_ to, dearest. Even if there were nothing to tie us, even if I had – another man in my life, though I'm sure I wouldn't ever have wanted one! – I would do it." Her life without Matthew seemed unthinkable, now, simply unthinkable… But she did believe that whatever had happened, she would have loved him. Whatever, whoever… She could not imagine a life, an existence in which she did not love Matthew Crawley. In which she would not have devoted everything to him, whether she'd been stupid enough to tie herself to someone else or not.

Matthew kissed her hand. "Then I wouldn't have let you anywhere near me."

* * *

><p>The next day, everything passed as usual. The weather was fine again, so they walked (Catherine a little more successfully, this time). Isobel visited, though only to declare her bright new ideas about the refugees, and to say she'd be coming back later for dinner. Mabel played too enthusiastically on her rocking horse, slipped off and bruised her knee; spending the rest of the afternoon in Matthew's lap as Mary read <em>Around the World in 80 Days<em> to them while Catherine slumbered. Matthew decided to give the new style of dinner jacket an airing, seeing as there were only family to dinner; Mary approved.

Dinner itself, though, was unusually terse. Tension was simmering between Edith and Mary, humming over every glance, which bothered Matthew a great deal. Robert seemed pensive, and quiet. Sybil was frustrated to be missing another shift, at her father's insistence. Violet seemed intent upon fuelling Isobel's ideas to the point of insincerity, and Cora's attempts to rally everyone simply fell flat.

By the time they retired (all together, at Robert's suggestion), the relief at escaping the cloying room was palpable. It didn't last long, however.

"I'm sorry it's a bit of a crush; I didn't want to be overheard," the Earl announced, casting an immediate air of apprehension. Edith stood beside him. It only took one pithy comment from Violet for him to get straight to the point. "We have a patient, who has been badly burned, who goes by the name of Patrick Gordon. But he claims… to be Patrick Crawley."

Matthew couldn't believe his ears; his face falling to an expression of despair, and disbelief. Patrick _Crawley_… That meant… It couldn't. If Patrick was alive… Then he was no longer the future Earl of Grantham. It was the final insult, the final nail in the coffin of his degradation. If he'd felt wretched before… His head spun, he was barely aware of Edith's insistence, nor Mary's ridicule, even as he felt her hand tightly clutching his own.

The man had a story, it seemed; of course it was only right, Matthew thought, that Robert send the details to Murray to determine the truth. If it was true… His honour duelled with his self-pity; he needed to provide for his family, he'd counted on the estate for that but then, what sort of an Earl could he really be, now?

"Well what a waste of time and money," Mary scoffed.

"What's the matter?" Edith cried, her voice rising in distress. "We were all so fond of Patrick – you _were_ going to marry him, for heaven's sake! Oh, but of _course_ you wouldn't be glad now if he's survived –"

"Don't be stupid!" Hot, angry tears filled Mary's eyes; how _could_ Edith be so blind and so cruel? Her voice trembled in despair. "This man is a fake, and an imposter, and I think it's a cruel trick to play when Matthew's been through so much –" Her grip on his hand was almost bruising in its intensity.

Edith laughed harshly. "Oh, yes, and I'm sure you think it a cruel trick that would rob you of the title of Countess as well –"

"How _dare_ you!"

A shocked silence settled for a moment over the room. Robert looked between them in despair, then to Matthew, who was staring thoughtfully at the ground, his hand limp in Mary's. Until, to everyone's surprise, he broke the silence.

"Oh, my dear." There might have been nobody else in the room. Matthew glared at the floor as if his life depended on it, as if he'd shatter if he looked at anybody else, his voice low, shaky, frighteningly calm. "I'm afraid I have let you down again. You never know – for the estate, this may be a blessing in disguise; he seems a nice enough chap! He's not very _pretty_, of course, but he can walk around the estate on his own two legs and sire a string of sons to continue the line; all in all I'd say that's an improvement on the current situation only not for me and, I'm sorry to say, not then for you. Sybil, could I prevail on you to take me back to my room?"

"Of course."

"Matthew –"

"Please don't, Mary."

He couldn't bear to look at her, even, he was too ashamed. The door closed heavily behind them as Sybil wheeled him in silence. Tension radiated from his shoulders, from his very being. Everything had been stripped from him now; his health, his dignity, his prospects; all he had now was his family only he had nothing left to give them. Only himself, and what _good_ was he possibly to them now? Yes, they loved him, but for all they'd rather have him as he was, he was no _good_ to them. He could offer them nothing, when they deserved everything.

The click of Sybil's footsteps behind him, the creak of the wheels of his chair, hammered into his mind in agonising stabs, each one a painful reminder of everything that had been taken from him.

After agonising minutes (it seemed; it couldn't really have been very long at all) Sybil stepped around him to open the door, before wheeling him inside.

"Shall I fetch Carson to come and help you, Matthew?" she asked softly.

"No." The last thing he wanted now was another reminder of his limitations.

Sybil simply nodded, and went to leave. If Matthew was rude, he really didn't care; but as she was almost out the door, he called back to her. "Would you please – tell Mary that I'm – sorry. And to just leave me for a little while."

She smiled gently. "Of course."

As it happened, she met Mary in the hallway, who'd soon fled from the library to hide her bitter tears. "Oh, Mary," she took her sister's hands. "How horrible this is. Matthew wanted me to tell you sorry – he wants to be left awhile –"

"Like heavens am I going to leave him awhile," Mary hissed, tugging her hands determinedly from Sybil's before striding down the hall toward their bedroom. She didn't need Sybil's sympathy. For all she cared, her sister could side with Edith; in fact she wouldn't be surprised if she _did_ but it wasn't _right_. Edith's betrayal (or what she perceived as betrayal) had hurt her deeply. To think that her sister believed she only cared for the due of Matthew's title…

She was furious. And that it had made Matthew so upset, it had destroyed the scrap of self-esteem he had left that he'd been so carefully trying to rebuild, it wasn't _fair_. Hadn't he suffered enough? Oh, Edith pretended herself in love with Patrick, or the idea of Patrick, but she hadn't a clue what love was, or what it meant! Stupid girl.

When she finally flung open the door, her heart broke afresh to see Matthew sitting so despondently. He simply sat, and glared miserably at the floor; looking up sharply at the sound of the door.

"Mary…" he sighed, eyes closing in frustration.

"No. Tell me to go away all you like, but I shan't. My darling…"

Kneeling beside him, she clasped his hands, resting them on his knees, but Matthew shook his head.

"I'm quite stuck with you, aren't I," he said fondly; then more bitterly, "As you are with me."

"Not this again, Matthew, please! You are worth everything. I don't care about – please, don't tell me you believe Edith."

"About Patrick? Or about why it bothers you so."

"How can you _think_ that –"

"But she's right, isn't she darling?" Matthew sighed angrily. "You are tied to me. If I lose everything, so do you, so do Mabel and Catherine, and I – I either cripple you, or the estate, whichever way this turns."

Mary hissed at him. "It bothers me because it is unjust. Because we love you. You stupid, obstinate man, don't you see that yet?"

"All I can see are the futures of other people who deserve far more being ruined by my own sorry state!"

"Oh, do shut up, Matthew!" she cried, cut to her core by his misery. Once, she might have kissed him to ease this. If things were different… She could have given him that reassurance that only she was able to give him, that reassurance that made everything else in the world beyond the two of them not matter at all. But she couldn't, now. And to kiss him, to remind him of that, would only make it worse.

She rose angrily to her feet, and paced away from him. "I wish," she bit out harshly, "I _wish_ you would understand that I don't care about anything besides you. Whatever happens, Matthew – however hard it becomes – I don't care. You don't need to be noble –"

"I'm not being noble, I'm being realistic."

"You're being _stupid_."

"I didn't ask you to come in and insult me. In fact, you know, I asked you to leave me alone, just for a little while."

"Very well then!"

The dressing-room door rattled in its frame with the force that Mary slammed it behind her. And either side of it, they both wept bitter tears of pity and injustice and unfairness.

It wasn't until several hours later that they each finally rang to change. Mary was silent as Anna undressed her, Matthew equally so as Carson helped him change and get into bed.

Mary came through wordlessly, settling into bed beside Matthew and lying on her back. They stared at the ceiling together.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered.

"I know. So am I."

"Don't be. For anything." His fingers searched for her hand between them, and he smiled as she allowed him to take it, his fingers curling smoothly around hers.

Mary simply squeezed his hand in response. For a little while they were silent, before Matthew whispered again. "I don't know what to do, darling. If this Patrick fellow is who he says he is, it would be a blessing to the estate. I'm sorry, but it would. I can't do much for it like this. And so many livelihoods depend on it. But then – I would let _you_ down. The estate would have been its own income, to support you and the girls; it'll be hard for me to – earn enough, now –"

"Dearest Matthew, do stop!" Mary cut over him softly. "He _is_ a fake. Papa will prove it. And then you will be a fine, _fine_ Earl, darling – you don't need to go upstairs for that, you know! And you'll have a surveyor or something like that to see the grounds that you can't get to. You hardly need to worry. Who knows, perhaps by the time it matters we shan't need a son in any case – you know more than anyone that laws change!"

"I suppose," he smiled gently. "And – if he's not?"

Mary warmed to her rosy vision. "We shall manage. If needs be, Branson will drive you to Ripon every day for work, and you shall have a ground floor office. And then, perhaps, Bel will grow up to be a – I don't know, a politician, or a diplomat even – things are changing like that, you know! – and will keep us comfortably in our old age."

A chuckle broke from his lips. "That's quite a plan, my dear."

"Hmm! So, darling. You mustn't trouble yourself with it. There's nothing you _can_ do, and I know how that frustrates you, but you must believe that it will work out. It must, Matthew."

"Thank you. Darling?"

"Yes?"

Mary turned her head to face him, and met his clear, blue eyes where he had turned his head to her. They hands lay together between them, still, in a tender comfort.

"Do you know how very much I love you?" he whispered.

"Yes." She smiled at her husband, her eyes shining with adoration. "Yes, I think perhaps I do."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Matthew awoke with a calmer, quieter resolve. And did something he'd told himself he'd never do; he lied to Mary.<p>

It wasn't technically a lie, he supposed. More of a misdirection. A needless errand to Ripon; well, the girls both needed new dresses, they were growing so quickly; no, he'd really be quite alright, of course she should take them; and why not treat them to a tea shop and a new doll each as well?

She left him by the fire, novel in hand, with a chaste kiss and the assurance that they'd be back before he knew it. Matthew rather hoped they wouldn't. She would have absolutely forbidden this.

Once a decent amount of time had lapsed, Matthew tucked his novel into his lap and awkwardly manoeuvred his wheelchair around. It couldn't be _that_ difficult… He was perfectly capable of wheeling himself now; it was only the doors… Damn.

Thankfully (perhaps?), Edith appeared before long, browsing the shelves for the soldiers.

"Oh! Matthew," she started when she saw him there, her cheeks colouring slightly. She clasped her hands around the book she held, and frowned at him. "Look, I'm… sorry, about all this. Truly, I am – I hope you don't think –"

"Don't be," he shook his head. "It was Patrick's place before mine. If it is him, then it's right."

Edith seemed to wilt. "You're terribly good, you know," she sounded genuinely sorry, and helpless. "Mary –"

"Don't – talk to me of Mary, please," Matthew peered up at her. He had no desire to discuss his wife with the sister that thought so little of her. An awkward silence hung between them for a moment, before Matthew remembered his intention. Actually, Edith was about the best person to have helped him.

Raising his chin a little, he tried to relax the tension across his brow and address her pleasantly. "Look, would you mind – taking me to him?"

"To Patrick?"

"Yes. Do you know where he is?"

"In the hall, I imagine…" Edith nodded, and opened the door before taking up the strain of Matthew's wheelchair.

"Thank you." He appreciated that Edith didn't ask his intentions, and that she took him without question. "Edith, please don't tell Mary – or anyone – about this," he asked as he recognised the bandaged face of Patrick just ahead of them.

"No, of course not." What would she tell them, anyway? That Cousin Matthew had asked to talk to Patrick? She hadn't a clue what of; though really there could only be one thing. However she felt, her quarrel was not with Matthew. So without another word, she left them.

Patrick looked up, warily.

"You're the new heir," he drawled.

Matthew only laughed, without humour. "Not the heir at all, if you are who you claim to be!"

"Oh… Yes. I'm sorry, you know, everyone seems fond of you – you married – Lady Mary, right?"

"I did," Matthew narrowed his eyes contemplatively at the man before him, so cryptic, so unreadable.

Patrick rocked back in his chair. "I hope you're making her happier than I could've," he said, an unreadable trace in his voice.

"I certainly hope I have made her happy," Matthew frowned, then shook his head. This was getting off the point. "Look," he said, more brusquely, "I actually wanted to talk to you about Mary."

"You did?" Patrick couldn't conceal his surprise, then – nor the slight shadow of panic that came over him. He seemed fidgety, uncomfortable. Well of course he wasn't _comfortable_, Matthew figured; no more than he was, anyway – for many reasons!

"Mm," Matthew nodded, settling into his purpose now as he leaned forward slightly. "You see – whatever you might imagine – if your claim proves true, I'd accept it with grace. It's only right, after all. Only, I want to ask if you'd promise me something."

The other man was taken aback. "I… Go on," he gestured for Matthew to continue.

He didn't hesitate. "That you'd make sure Mary, and our daughters, were provided for. God knows I don't care for myself, but – well. I'm sure you can understand how my prospects – like so many people's – have diminished considerably with my… condition," he sighed. He considered Patrick's reaction, watching him carefully. "Please understand, I don't ask for much. Only that you would look out for them... if it were ever necessary. After all," he inclined his head, one eyebrow rising in something resembling a challenge. "They would be family."

"Well, I, I think it's a little early to be making demands, or, predictions about the future –" Patrick stammered uncomfortably.

A cold light glittered in Matthew's eyes. "I see. It was presumptuous of me to ask, I'm sure –"

"No! No, I…" He jumped, eyes blinking rapidly behind his bandages, before he nodded decisively. "You're all… You're all family, yes, that's right. Of course, I'd – help, if ever it was needed."

"Thank you." Matthew sat back, calmly folding his hands in his lap for a quiet moment as the other man squirmed before him.

"You know I – I mean nothing against _you _by any of this," Patrick eventually said, sounding almost desperate as Matthew showed no immediate sign of leaving. He'd known nothing about the new heir before he'd come here, nothing at all…

"No, I know." A faint smile, that lacked any warmth at all, crossed Matthew's features briefly. "As I said – if you are Patrick Crawley, then it's only right."

He hadn't intended to, until this moment, but he suddenly held his hand out to the soldier before him. Hesitantly, Patrick took it, his handshake as limp as Matthew's was strong. "Well. I shan't keep you – and thank you. Bye, then."

An uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut as he struggled to wheel himself away, back to the security and solitude and familiarity of the library to await the return of his family. His _true_ family, not that – stranger, in the hall.

* * *

><p>It was over.<p>

It was bloody over.

The telegram had arrived that morning; he'd been on his way back into the house with Mary when Robert had anticipated them, practically running down the drive towards them as he waved the piece of paper in his hand.

"It's over!" he shouted, again and again. "My dear boy, it's over. The war is officially over. It's ended."

"My God."

He felt weightless, lightheaded, a little dizzy. Though he'd been out of it for a few months, now, it had always been _there_… A shadow, hanging over them all. It probably always would, he thought, in some way or another. But today, just for today and this moment, that shadow was gone.

When Robert dashed back inside to tell the servants, Matthew reached up and touched Mary's hand that lay on his shoulder. "Can we stay out for a moment?" he asked breathlessly. He felt full, empty, liberated as much as he was trapped forever by it in this chair, and he couldn't bear to go _inside_ just now.

"Darling, we can do whatever you wish. What wonderful – wonderful news!"

What Matthew wanted to do, in this moment, minute, hour of joy before the world reminded them again of its truths, was to kiss his wife. And he did, as they sat together (Mary on the bench beside him, leaning awkwardly forwards to close the distance between them, it had been there too long) in the cold sunlight, and she kissed him back; and nothing, nothing could mar their relief or their joy.

He'd got through it, God only knew how, and it was over. Though he'd come out of it a changed man, tainted and tarnished… he'd got through it.

* * *

><p>Of course, the euphoric mood that the news generated did not last long; it couldn't, given the circumstances, the wreckage in its wake and the continued discomfort that was the presence of Patrick. They'd vowed not to speak of it till there was more news, but it bubbled under the surface of everyone's awareness, every time they looked at Matthew, or Mary, or their daughters, who were such a part of life at the Abbey now. Matthew knew at least, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that whatever happened he would have this family. Whether he was the heir or not, he was still Mary's husband, and Robert's son-in-law; that counted for something. He could be sure of them, when everything else in his life was stripped away, and it had been… He could have faith in <em>that<em>, at least.

Still, however much he'd tried to rationalise and accept his possible future, however much he tried to convince himself that it didn't matter… it _did_ matter. Not for himself, but for _them_. Mary deserved the estate, he'd always believed that, and he'd believed that he could give it to her. To be robbed of it now was to rob her of it, and that was not right. The injustice of that stung him.

When Robert gathered them again, things were sadly no clearer. In fact, they only seemed in more of a mess than before. Facts, truths, lies, stories, rumours, memories… Mary and Edith battled again across the room, it wasn't his place to interject but he couldn't bear that it made them fight.

There was no consolation while there was no _answer_. Once they knew, they could make plans if needs be, they could move on… But not with it hanging over their heads like this, still. It touched him that they cared so much, they all cared… Even Violet gave his shoulder a fond squeeze (oh, but didn't they realise he didn't want their sympathy?). It mattered to them, it mattered to the family, because he was their family - and it _should_ be right, for the sake of Mary and the girls if not for him.

"I'm sorry I can't be more decisive," Robert said regrettably, as everyone trailed out to leave Matthew and Mary.

"Don't be," Matthew sighed, taking comfort in Mary's hand. He was so _tired_ of people apologising to him, pitying him. "Whatever happens, we'll be alright." It had become their motto, of sorts.

"You will, my dear boy," Robert nodded. He had no doubt of that. He would make sure of it, damned sure.

"Oh Papa," Mary stood, and kissed his cheek. "You are a darling."

Robert smiled indulgently at his daughter, and her husband, and left. It pained him that Edith was so taken in, and may be so hurt by it, but he couldn't help but pray that this Patrick was false; for the sake of his granddaughters, his daughter, and… yes, his son.

And yet, as things went… it didn't matter. For when the morning dawned, Patrick had left.

"Edith's convinced we drove him away," Mary sighed, wheeling Matthew down the corridor from their bedroom to the hall, slowly, with Mabel and Catherine in tow in their primmest new dresses. Mabel hung on the arm of Matthew's chair with one hand, his own clasped gently over it, as she clutched Catherine's protectively in the other. Papa had said this was important; so she was on her very best behaviour.

Matthew shrugged. "I suppose we did. We can only guess if it's because we were too close to the truth, or so far from it. I only wish we could know –"

"It doesn't matter, darling. It doesn't matter now." He was being noble, still, she knew. It bothered him that he _might_ not be justified in his position. But there was nothing to be done.

The servants were already in the hall, the remaining soldiers gathering to the other side as the clock approached eleven. Matthew wanted to be by them, so Mary took him to that corner; close to those who had served as well as he had but still among the family group. Matthew ushered Mabel and Catherine around in front of him, and leaned forwards to speak to them quietly.

"Now, darlings, do you remember what's happening?"

Mabel answered for them. "We's pleased the fighting's stopped, Papa." Catherine nodded in suit beside her, suddenly deciding her legs were too tired then and sitting down heavily. Matthew took her onto his lap.

"That's right, Bel. It's stopped, and we must be very, very grateful. You must think of all the very brave people –"

"Like you, Papa?"

"Well –" he smiled, and touched her cheek. "I suppose, like me; but even more you must think of the ones who weren't quite so lucky as I was. I was very, very lucky, darlings, to come home to you. So you must think especially of all the very brave people who didn't get to go home to see their families. Because they saved us."

"Yes, Papa."

Pride lit Matthew's eyes, looking at his precious daughter, and the younger in his arms. He was lucky. So very, damned lucky.

As Robert introduced the silence, Matthew lifted Catherine down to the floor, watching proudly as Mabel helped her to stand straight as the clock struck, and Matthew straightened as much as he could in the wheelchair.

The silence was heavy, and sombre, but through it all he was glad. Glad for the end of it, glad for what it had given him, glad for the lessons it had taught him. To recognise the things that mattered, and the things that did not… His family mattered. His wife mattered, his daughters mattered, and William – dear William, had saved him to come back to them. _That_ mattered. And he was so very, very proud.

The clock finished its strike, and the room relaxed. Catherine took this a little far, and plopped down again, her cry rising at the unexpected hardness of the floor.

"Oh Kit!" Mabel hissed at her, as Robert closed the ceremony with a fond glance in their direction.

"Shh, darling." Matthew picked her up swiftly, holding her closely to his chest. Mabel frowned by his side, sucking her thumb, cross with her little sister for spoiling what was important to Papa, but Matthew could not mind.

"Oh dear," Mary murmured, as the gathering dispersed. "Someone must be getting peckish, I think!"

"Does Mrs. Patmore say we can have a treat?" Mabel suddenly perked up.

"No – no, darling, I didn't mean that!" Mary laughed, as they went across the hall. "Perhaps later, if you've finished all your words."

"Won't it feel better to have earned it anyway, Bel?" Matthew said softly, distracted by Catherine's tears on his lap as he wiped them gently away.

"Suppose," she muttered.

"Good girl…" This was addressed to both Mabel and Catherine, whose tears had calmed now as Matthew's fingers proved a suitable distraction. She tugged at them, placing her tiny palm flat against his, so much bigger, and smiled up at her Papa. He grinned back at her, and she liked that, so she twisted around, tugged herself to her feet on his knees, and patted his face affectionately.

Matthew laughed, batting her hands from where they grabbed at his nose; she giggled, and bounced a little. "Darling, you – good God!" he suddenly gasped, every muscle tightening as his breath left his body; he trembled, clutched at his wheelchair.

"My dear, what is it?" Mary exclaimed, stopping and coming to his side.

"Papa?" Mabel peered at him with wide eyes.

His voice shook. "Nothing. Mary, if I – no. It doesn't matter, I – thought – I just remembered something, that's all, it hit me quite strongly."

After only a little pressing, Mary was convinced; touching his cheek and resuming her place behind him as Mabel continued to rub her Papa's hand fondly.

Still shaking, Matthew wrapped his arm around Catherine, sitting now securely in his lap.

He had remembered something. Not very much of something, barely the slightest flutter of something, but… as Catherine had bounced in his lap, he had… could he have? Or had he just _remembered_ a feeling…

It was too early to tell. It didn't matter, not yet, not… until he felt it again.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Phew! There we are. Thank you ever so much for reading_. _I'd love you know what you thought; reviews make my day! Thank you! :)_


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: _I'm being very impatient. I've decided to split ATiL's 2x07 into two parts, and have gotten so excited about the part I've already written that I can't wait to post it! Ultimately I'd like this chapter and the next to be thought of as two complementary parts, but they do stand alone. _

_To continue! Yes. I'm having a very hectic couple of weeks with work, so I wanted to get this out there, and... if I'm feeling generous... (I will be. I'm determined) Part 2 will follow on Monday, concluding 2x07. The twist will appear in part 2, so consider this chapter to be... whetting your appetite. Is that alright? I do hope so!_

_Thank you so much for your continuing support. Your reviews make me smile so much, and I'm continually thrilled by your responses in whatever form they come. Thank you. And thanks as ever to EOlivet who is an absolute star! This fic would not have happened without her. __At all._

_Onwards, then! And things are starting to look up! _

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five<strong>

The months following the end of the war were hectic with change. The very air, and atmosphere, felt changed. When Christmas came around, it was celebrated with more joy and goodwill than for all the years of the conflict – it no longer hung over them like a shadow. Perhaps inevitably, though, there was still _some_ sort of heaviness about it. The war may have been over, but its effects lingered and were felt. The present, and the future, was changed by it. Things could not be as they once were… Perhaps they never would be able to.

Gradually, the soldiers and beds were moved out of the house – it became a home again, much to the delight of the Earl and Countess. To Matthew, it felt as though now he must return to real life. Of course, he was aware that things couldn't stay as they were forever – he couldn't live his life at the Abbey with his family, at least not until the proper time – he knew eventually he'd have to think about how to _live_, like this. He could not remain a perpetual convalescent… particularly now the convalescents were gone.

But more than all that was changing. Or, at least – he hoped it was. Perhaps. He still wasn't sure. Just sometimes… there was a shiver, a tingling, a _something_, in his legs. Only a memory of a feeling, Clarkson told him when he mentioned it… His back was broken, he knew that, he understood it, that he wouldn't recover. But… he _did_ keep feeling it, or – he thought he did, at least. While Clarkson still cast doubt, though, he couldn't bear to really hope. Hope was damned useless.

Though gradually… the shivers grew a little stronger, a little more frequent, a little more… potent. One evening after dinner, his mind wandered as the ladies talked of changing fashions. No, the war hadn't even left _that_ alone; not that he cared very much for that sort of thing now. And then Robert brought up the idea of _value_. Before the war, he believed his life had some… Well, where did that leave Matthew? If the Earl of Grantham, the perfectly healthy and functioning and agile Earl of Grantham with an entire estate to maintain and run felt that his life lacked _value_, what worth could Matthew _possibly _ascribe to himself?

Thank heavens for Mary to change the subject. Darling Mary, how she understood him…

"Have you seen the boy's haircuts the women are wearing in Paris?"

He loved her so much in that moment, that he just about forgot their entire family in the room as his lip quirked into a gentle smirk.

"I hope you won't try that, darling – I'm not sure how feminine it is…" he teased.

All she did was tilt her head a little, raise her eyebrow… and he _felt_ it, and it shocked him so much that it forced a sharp intake of breath. That familiar flutter – only very faint – but very definitely _there_ whisper of heat.

"I might! After all I'm not sure how feminine _I_ am," she cut back, her voice low in response to him. There was a light in her eyes – had he surprised her? He'd surprised himself; he hadn't – _flirted_ with her, not consciously, for so many months… Was that what he was doing now?

He swallowed. "Very, I'm pleased to say."

She was alway_s_ that. So feminine, so elegant, so alluring, so… _Mary_. Whatever he felt, or didn't feel, in the depths of his being for her… she was _always_ that.

Quietly, he kept a mental track of it. Where he felt something, how often, how long the feeling lasted… But he kept it to himself. It wasn't worth it, to hope.

At least, that was what he believed.

While he wheeled himself into the library (Mary's hands resting naturally on the back of his chair, still) a few days later, having dressed for dinner, he was puzzling over it again. Last night as Mary had slipped into bed beside him, her leg had hooked over his, her hand brushing down over his hip without thought, and he physically shivered at the faint heat of arousal her touch caused. She'd thought him cold, and held him tighter; how torturous it had been to keep himself from her! For the first time in months he'd wanted – really, really _wanted – _a closer sort of embrace, and the effort to restrain had been tremendous. He couldn't let her think… he couldn't let her hope… But that troubled him, it troubled him very much.

"Oh, look darling –" Her own distraction was thankfully great enough to cause his own, and he glanced up. "The girls must have been in here earlier, Catherine's left her doll."

Mary walked over to the chair where the doll lay, half-hidden, under a cushion. Picking it up, she patted its hat fondly back into shape. "I'll take it up now, or she'll miss it when she wakes up."

Matthew's lip quirked wryly, his eyes twinkling at his wife.

"Quite right, my dear. I suppose I'll wait here..."

She was too busy rewarding his humour with an indulgent, teasing smile to notice the small footstool in her path; Matthew himself seeing it just a moment too late as her foot caught – "Look out!" he called, pushing up to reach desperately for her flung-out arm as she toppled forward.

Mary gasped sharply as she fell, and again as she felt Matthew's strong hand close around her arm, steadying her and stopping her from falling. With her other braced against the mantelpiece (the doll had fallen helplessly to the floor) she regained her balance, breathing heavily.

"Gracious, that was a near thing!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Thank you, darling…" her words died on her lips as she turned to him, her expression slackening into disbelief. "Good Lord, Matthew –"

In truth, he hadn't even realised until he saw her face, and her shocked glance down. It hadn't even registered that he was – he was – _standing_.

He looked down. At his own two feet, on the ground, holding himself up. Then back up at Mary, his eyes wide and lips parted in amazement. He still clutched her arm – terrified to let go now, if he should stumble – his heart was hammering and bursting in his chest. He was standing. That meant… That meant – God, he couldn't even begin to consider everything that that meant!

"My God," he whispered tremulously, slowly reaching his other hand to Mary as well. They clung to each other, breathless and speechless with happiness as their faces began to light with pure, inexpressible joy.

Mary couldn't speak. She felt as though her face would break apart from her smile, it was _too much_, and all she could eventually do was kiss him.

She laughed as she kissed him, her smile beaming against his lips as his arms came fully around her. She felt his laughter bubble up, reverberating through her as they held each other in delight. Their kiss went on, deepened, and they swayed against each other – though this brought Mary jolting back to earth with a shock.

"You must sit down!" she exclaimed, her eyes flying over his face and _him_. "My darling – don't tire yourself!"

It took Matthew a moment – he was _standing_, he didn't want to sit down! – but finally he nodded, and with Mary's help eased back down into his chair.

"I imagine this'll give everyone quite the shock," he laughed breathlessly.

"We must tell them! And – I'll have Carson telephone for Doctor Clarkson – I'll go now. Oh, _Matthew_!"

She bent and kissed him again – gasping as his hand slipped around the back of her neck for one fleeting, taunting moment – and dashed out of the library, Catherine's doll in hand.

The term elation would not even begin to describe the atmosphere among the Crawley family that evening. Where there had been darkness in Matthew's future, now there was hope, and brightness, and light. It was too much to think of and yet he could think of nothing else. Robert pumped his arm enthusiastically, brimming with happiness at the simple, yet incredible sight of his young heir and son-in-law standing in front of him (before Matthew was hastily ushered back into his chair by the over-protective ladies).

Clarkson arrived soon, with Violet and Isobel, who hugged her son tearfully. Even the Dowager Countess clasped his hand tightly for a moment, her eyes shining fondly before she resumed her usual composure. They listened, on edge, as the doctor explained the very likely true nature of Matthew's injury. Spinal shock… Not broken. He would recover. He would have a – _normal_ life. Nothing could dampen the beautiful promise of those words – not Mary's brief flash of indignation at the secrecy; oh Matthew understood her anger but he couldn't blame Clarkson, really – not the fact that he'd carry a bruise on his spine for the rest of his life; what could he care for that? – nothing.

He couldn't stop grinning. He grinned through dinner, at the simple delight of sitting in a proper chair at the table; the familiar, hard solidness of it under him. He grinned as they joked at the prospect of him having a cane. He didn't care. He grinned at the thought of his daughters seeing him the next morning, and how they would react. He grinned until his cheeks ached from it. His mind raced, he couldn't take it in, he was _happy_. He was going to have a normal life. All those things he thought, _believed_, he'd never do again… Everything suddenly seemed possible.

As they ate, he allowed his gaze to linger on his wife. Darling Mary, she looked _happy_. Happier than she had done at all in the months since he'd come back a broken man. It made his heart sing; for he'd been so painfully aware of the toll he was taking on her. Though she would never admit it, would never allow him to know what kind of pain she felt, he knew that he had hurt her. And he admired her, for how wonderfully strong she'd been. He could hardly imagine how strong; so strong it had only made him feel weaker in the face of it. But oh, how he loved her for it. And suddenly he couldn't keep it in any longer.

"I – want to tell you all something," he cleared his throat to gather the attention of the family, who all looked at him expectantly, Mary smiling serenely as she held his hand. He moistened his lips and spoke with enormous feeling. "As you know, during this – well, I think I can say _horrible_ – time… My dear Mary has proved to be the most marvellous person."

"Hear, hear!" Robert beamed. Mary blushed, her smile trembling with emotion at her husband's heartfelt words.

Matthew grinned and carried on. "Now I, I know it hardly needs saying. But she has done so much – for me, and always still for our dear girls – more, I think, than any of us can realise. And it – can't have been easy, not when I've been such a – misery –"

"Oh, Matthew –"

"No, darling, I mean it. You've been – wonderful. Simply wonderful. And I want everyone to know that, and how much I appreciate everything you've given, and done. I only wish I could ever make it up to you. Thank you, my darling."

A quiet hush fell over the table, as they all observed the adoration with which the young couple gazed at each other. Matthew was absolutely right; they'd all seen it. She was devoted to him, utterly devoted; that much would have been obvious to even the blindest fool.

"To Mary, then," Sybil impulsively held up her glass, brimming with happiness and pride at her sister, who she knew would only ever have donned a nursing apron for one man in the world. "And Matthew's health. To Mary _and_ Matthew."

The toast was readily taken up with cheers and smiles.

And no-one was honestly surprised, when Matthew claimed quite soon after dinner to be done in (all that unbridled joy was really quite exhausting), and glanced at Mary in a silent request to help him back to their room.

As they slipped out, once beyond the earshot of the rest of the family, Matthew caught Carson's eye while he held the door for them.

"Carson?" He held a hand up for Mary to stop, and she waited calmly.

"Yes, Sir?"

Matthew took a breath. "Would you – kindly tell Bates, and Anna as well, that Lady Mary and I will be quite alright for this evening? We'll – ring, if we do need anything. But not to expect it."

He practically felt Mary's blush behind him, as her fingertips skimmed lightly across his shoulder and the back of his neck. Carson simply raised an eyebrow; nothing but that and the gentle glint in his eye betraying any sort of reaction to Matthew's request.

"Of course, Mr. Crawley." The butler smiled warmly. "And might I tell you how very pleased I – and all of the staff – are, at the splendid news. We're very glad."

"Thank you; I do appreciate that. You're very kind," Matthew returned. Carson simply inclined his head respectfully, a sort of pride and fondness lighting his eyes as he watched the two of them make their way across the hall, and down the corridor.

They didn't speak until they were through the door, a breathless quiet hanging between them. Once inside, Mary walked around to face her husband, her eyes bright and hands clasping gently in front of her. When she spoke, her voice was low and tremulous. She moistened her lips, which suddenly seemed to be intolerably dry. Matthew watched her.

"Do you –" she started, then had to begin again, taking another step towards him. "Matthew, do you think –"

"I don't know," he breathed in a rush, his own voice shaking with anticipation and wonder. He couldn't stop staring at her. "I don't know yet. But – I think – I'm quite ready to find out."

Mary pressed her lips into a trembling smile and nodded, quickly. Matthew's smile back was breathless. "Come here, my darling…"

She could have sobbed with happiness from the low, emotional depth of his tone alone. Slowly, she came to him, knelt, lay her hands softly against his chest and kissed him… Her hands smoothed from his chest, to his shoulders, down over his arms as his hands clasped around her elbows, bringing her closer. Heavy silence lay over them, broken only by their light gasps, their lips, the quiet whisper of hands over fabric and skin. Mary eased Matthew's jacket off, then his waistcoat, pulling gently on his bow-tie till it slipped from his neck, and her kisses trailed from his lips, to his jaw, to his throat as he gasped and his fingers dipped into her hair. She felt the pins ease out, one by one, her hair falling softly around her shoulders. And Matthew was doing it, _Matthew_; he was here and the war was over and he was _alright_, not just alive but alright, and _everything_ seemed right for the first time in many, many, many months.

And then it suddenly hit her, that this was it. He was here, he was healthy, and he never had to go away again. This was _it_, now. For the first time ever in their marriage, in their relationship, in their love – there was nothing, nothing at all that stood in their way.

It was too much to take in, and she pulled back, gazing tearfully at Matthew even as she smiled. Her hands rose to his face, his shirt was half-undone, he was so _handsome_ and _hers_ and –

"I love you," she whispered. It was too much. It was all she could say.

Matthew only nodded, understanding all the things she could not express. He tenderly stroked her hair back from her face, feeling his body tremble and pulse with desire from the heat of her kiss, her hands, and he _loved_ her. He was flooded with feelings, sensations, deep-rooted and instinctive and carnal and passionate, insurmountable love over all of them, that he hadn't felt in months and had believed he would never feel again.

It was too much.

"Darling, I –" he whispered, heavily, meeting her gaze with fevered, glittering eyes. "Help me – the bed, please –"

"Mm," she nodded, kissed him again – he moaned into her mouth, clutched at her wrists – then held him steadily as he rose to his feet. Together they managed to shuffle the few steps to the bed, Matthew trying to remember how to use the muscles, before he sank gratefully down onto the edge of it. That was better.

His hands rested softly on Mary's hips, and slowly, he turned her around. There… His hands worked, trembling in anticipation, to free her dress, then her corset; the garments slipping to the floor in pools of silk and cotton at her feet. Her skin… Her beautiful, freckled skin, warm under his palms, so familiar…

"Do you know," he breathed gently, "it's funny…" He leant forward and pressed a kiss to the small of her back, his fingers dipping into the silk of her underwear, slipping it down as his kisses followed… He murmured against her skin, his breath hot and trembling. "We've gone without – this – for so much longer, while I was away… But doesn't it feel like it's been far longer than any of that?"

Mary shivered at the feel of his lips there, heat curling through her.

"It does," she gasped, her hands crossing in front of her to clasp over his on her hips. "But I'm –" His tongue flicked suddenly and she drew in a sharp breath. "I'm so glad, darling –"

"I know," he murmured deeply. "God, so am I."

He felt Mary tremble under his hands as he eased down her stockings, as far as he could manage from sitting on the bed – oh, but he watched her as she finished with dark eyes, his breath quickening in his chest. Gently, he turned her to face him, pulling her forward as he pressed hot, open kisses to her abdomen, his arms curling around her as he eased up, up to her breasts and _God_, he'd forgotten how sweet they were, how sweet she was… She whimpered, her hand twisting in his thick, golden hair, arousal stirring so strongly in her she felt almost faint. He lavished her with attention, with love, his soft hum of satisfaction thrumming against her as his arms tightened, and her arms tightened, and they clung to each other with his lips around her breast as she swayed weakly against him.

And he needed her. He wanted her, he craved her… He craved her with a stronger desire than perhaps he had ever felt. It certainly felt that way. God, that they might never have been able to do this… He needed the affirmation that only she could give him. He needed her to make things right again. With a soft groan, he teased one last flick of his tongue against her breast, and glanced up with pleading eyes. "Mary…" he whispered weakly.

She swallowed, and nodded, understanding him instinctively. Her body burned with passion, with emotion, with adoration. She slipped his shirt from his torso, knelt again, cast aside his belt with shaking fingers and worked at his trousers, hardly daring to breathe. She could feel him watching her, and it only made her work faster… Matthew breathlessly raised himself enough to allow her to undress him entirely, and… _there_.

Almost hesitantly, he reached out and traced his fingers over her cheek. His body flamed under her gaze as if it was the first time she'd seen him. In many ways, it felt as though it was. This was their first time, their first time after the darkness of these terrible, despairing months. However they'd tried to pretend to themselves… Doing this, now; they knew that a pretence was all it would ever have been.

"Darling," she breathed, her palms sliding up his thighs.

It felt as though they were at a brink, or a precipice. Matthew swallowed heavily, feeling his chest rise and fall as he trembled under her touch.

"My darling, will you –" He paused, wet his lips. This was it, he prayed so desperately… "Will you – touch me?" he gasped, breathless and dizzy with hope and desire.

Mary made only a wordless sound in response, low in her throat, feeling herself flush hot with his boldness as her fingers sought to answer him. He groaned immediately, head tilting back in unrestrained pleasure as he _felt_… His body responded instinctively, blood raced through him, it was memory, impulse, _touch_ as she stroked him, gripped him, curled her fingers around and – up, and down in a teasing, scintillating caress. Another groan, louder, his hands fisting into the sheets at his side as he remembered and felt and shuddered, heat spearing through him as her… lips closed over him, her mouth open and hot and wet and he could _feel it_. A strangled gasp this time, his breaths deep and shuddering, he'd forgotten or tried not to think and this was _glorious_ and all at once it was too much.

They could do this. They could be together, _properly_ together, there was no doubt left. With Mary's help, Matthew shuffled back properly onto the bed, allowing hastily propped pillows to support his back as Mary straddled him, kissing him, tongue teasing into his mouth as hands grasped and stroked and she sank down, holding his shoulders, down… There. Their barely restrained moans mingled in the heated air as her body took him in, welcomed him, her legs curled awkwardly around his hips as they clung to each other, Mary beginning that slow, rhythmic rock against him.

Though Matthew could make no movement in response (how he longed to thrust his hips up against her; his body ached to but the muscles would not), he cradled her in his arms, kissed her, whispered his adoration to her as her movements stoked fire that pervaded every fibre of his soul. His lips trailed to her neck… dropping softly along her shoulder, before his back curled, hers arched in response as they dropped further to her breasts… Her hips jerked wildly against him, a raw cry of pleasure breaking from her lips and spearing through the still air.

They were together, complete, wrapped in a perfect union of body and mind as they made love, every touch and sensation all the more precious for their appreciation of it. They had been prepared for a life without _this_, had accepted it, and now they were reclaiming the life they were supposed to have, together. They reclaimed it with passion, with fervour, a sense of desperate gratitude colouring every movement, every touch. Their groans rose and blended together, piercing the night, sweat quickly slicking over their bodies with their ardour. Seconds, moments, hours… They couldn't tell, they didn't care. They were _together_, and then they really were, as thrusts turned to jerks turned to shudders, control slipping and ecstasy soaring. Their cries were loud and raw and desperate as they broke in each other's arms, a fire storming through them with such strength that it ached before it dissipated, slowly and sweetly, leaving them clinging to each other in breathless pleasure.

They couldn't speak; no words could do justice to their love. Cooling, damp skin pressed together, their cheeks flushed, hair damp against their foreheads. Mary's head sank to Matthew's shoulder as his arms wrapped fully around her, pressing countless soft kisses to the top of her head. And when she sobbed quietly against his chest, he knew that this time they were only tears of gratitude and happiness, as he felt a hot tear slide down his own cheek with love for her.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _Thank you ever so much for reading. Sorry to leave it there, I hope you'll forgive me! Much more to come in Part 2 (very soon, all being well!). :P I very much hope that you enjoyed it, and would love to know your thoughts! __Thank you!_


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: _Happy Monday! As promised, here is Part 2 of ATiL's 2x07. Actually, there's nothing directly from the episode here but it's definitely within the time-frame, and there's a certain crossover... as you will see._

_Thanks so much for you__r responses to Chapter 25 :) I appreciate them so much. And huge thanks to EOlivet for making sure my Robert was on track, here. (Though as Silvestria helpfully pointed out to me; Robert seemed so OOC for most of S2 anyway that who could really tell!)_

_Basically, I hope this works..!_

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six<strong>

By breakfast the next morning, the sense of elation that still bubbled around the great house showed no signs of fading. Matthew simply couldn't remember being happier in his life.

He had a wife, children, he had his health, he had freedom, prospects – he had everything. As Mary sat next to him at the long table, he couldn't keep the smile from his face, and neither could she. And it was infectious; Edith, Sybil and Robert all grinned into their coffee as well, as they talked mindlessly of the future and of plans that could now be made.

Matthew speared the last of his salmon onto his fork, chewing contemplatively, when the atmosphere of peaceful joy was shattered by Mabel and Catherine dashing across the room, Miss Ludbrook hovering with a smile in the doorway.

"Beg pardon, my Lord – Mr. Crawley, they were anxious to see you, I hope you don't mind –"

"Goodness, no!" Matthew laughed, turning to greet them.

"Papa –"

"Miss Ludbrook says you was wanting to see us, Papa!"

"I always want to see you both, darling," he grinned, lifting Mabel to sit on the edge of the table, and then Catherine, kissing them each softly on the cheek as he did so.

"B'ekfast!" Catherine grinned, grabbing a fistful of eggs from Mary's plate beside her. "Oh –" She frowned as Mary tutted softly, wiping her hand before she had a chance to enjoy it.

"Kit, look!" Mabel patted her arm impatiently. Her eyes grew impossibly wide as Matthew slowly stood from his chair, Mary's hand supportively under his elbow.

Mabel pressed her hands together, a little frown creasing her brow. "But Papa, what about you's chair!"

Matthew chuckled gently. "Do you know, Bel… I reckoned the war's been over quite long enough, now, for me not to need it any more. What do you think?"

Catherine peered, blinking as she chewed the lacy cuff of her dress, not quite realising what the fuss was even as Mabel began to squirm excitedly.

"That's – good, yes?" she grinned up at her father, an earnest light shining in her clear blue eyes.

"My darling, it's very – very good," Matthew beamed.

"Ve'y good!" Catherine echoed, clapping her hands excitably.

"I think they rather approve," Sybil laughed from across the table, as Matthew eased back into his seat with Catherine happily in his lap.

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><p>However, it was at breakfast only a week later that the atmosphere of happiness in the house was utterly, completely destroyed.<p>

Everything was quite as usual. Matthew had walked himself from his wheelchair to the table, not quite ready yet to manage the whole journey from the bedroom on his feet, even with his new cane and Mary's support. Quiet chatter bounced back and forth over the table; Sybil was going in to Ripon for a meeting, Matthew might go with her to visit the old firm, Edith suggested she might drive them. Why not bring the girls along, Mary wondered; they could all make a day of it. Robert had some letters to write then some tenants to see about farm use; he'd talk over it with Matthew later on.

But first, he wanted…

"Carson," Robert twisted round to where the butler stood quietly by the door. "Haven't the papers come, yet?"

A beat passed before Carson answered. "They – well – I believe they're downstairs, my Lord." A bead of sweat appeared on his brow, a definite air of discomfort about him. Sensing this shift, the family turned curious glances to him.

"Well whatever are they doing down there, still?" Robert frowned. This wasn't like Carson at all. "Have them brought up at once!"

"I'm – not sure that would be best _just_ now –" Carson tried. A coldness seemed to settle over the room. Mary was convinced he had glanced at her. No. She couldn't imagine that… She turned to Matthew, but he only frowned back, puzzled.

Robert was losing patience. "Why not, Carson?"

It was absolutely impossible. But it was more, more than any of them could know. The butler's voice dropped.

"I really couldn't say, my Lord. Only – I might bring them to you in the library, in a short while?"

He was being clearly evasive. Robert could not imagine what on earth his hesitation stemmed from, and his patience quickly waned, a note of hardness edging his tone.

"I'd like to see my newspaper now, thank you." Carson had him worried, and he would not wait, would not be ushered and primed by his own staff.

Carson swallowed, and nodded, casting a glance that was almost (definitely) apologetic in Mary's direction as he went out. It was suddenly difficult to breathe, her chest felt tight. It could be anything… Anything. It had been so many years, so much had happened, surely no-one could still care… She almost gasped as Matthew's fingers closed around her hand beneath the table. His grip indicated his thoughts lying along the same path, but it _couldn't_…

"What on earth do you think it is?" Sybil wondered aloud. "Didn't it seem he was trying to hide something?"

"Sounds like something unsavoury," Edith muttered. Then it suddenly seemed to catch up with her, and she glanced at Mary, too. It couldn't be. Mary's lips trembled as she pressed them together, and she simply shook her head.

"Whatever it is," Robert sighed as he folded his napkin, "I don't see why on earth Carson thinks he should keep it from me."

"Papa –" Mary tried, but Carson had already returned.

The butler's hand seemed to shake as he held the tray out with the Earl's paper. Calmly, Robert took it.

Deafening silence settled over the room; breathless curiosity, quiet dread.

As Robert's eyes flicked over the page, his expression to start with was carefully impassive. His brows knotted, once, his lip curled, then, faint colour touching his cheeks as his eyes scanned down.

"Good Lord," he muttered under his breath. Mary trembled as she watched him, Matthew steady and reassuring beside her, ready to stand by her.

The Earl was too calm. Frighteningly calm. "_It seems a vile and thankless thing, for a valet to serve an Earl when his wife's been killed in cold blood," _he read slowly.

A deep breath of relief eased from Mary's chest, and a weight lifted from her shoulders. It was about Bates. Of course that was hardly _better_, but… Thank God. Matthew squeezed her hand.

But then Robert carried on. "_Killed, you might ask? Unlikely, it seems. Suicide was the first suggestion. Who would suspect the valet? It might seem too scandalous to attach such a rumour to the great Crawley family. Until the news is brought to light that the Earl of Grantham – more particularly, his eldest daughter – is no stranger to scandal. A secret – of unthinkable proportion – that the unfortunate valet's wife knew."_

"My God," Matthew whispered. Mary gasped quietly beside him, her hand covering her mouth as her father lay the newspaper down with trembling hands. His face, at last, was a mask of impenetrable fury.

"Papa –"

"Mary?" Sybil frowned. She didn't understand.

"I have never," the Earl cut sharply across them all. "_Never_, in my whole life, been more disappointed and – frankly – _disgusted_, than I am at this moment." His voice suddenly rose as he came to his feet, leaning forwards with his hands desperately gripping the table edge. His cold eyes were fixed squarely on Mary. The very room seemed to shake with his words. "How _could_ you?" he finally shouted. "You stupid, _stupid_ girl!" He shook his head in anger.

"Papa!" Mary cried desperately. "I'm sorry – it was so long ago, I didn't –"

"Cousin Robert, I really think –" Matthew tried to support his wife.

"_You_ knew of this?" His anger turned to Matthew, now; why didn't matter, it was irrational, he couldn't think through his rage.

Matthew's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Yes, I – Mary told me before we married."

"So, you knew what sort of a woman you married," he practically spat. Matthew riled in defence of her.

"I knew her truth, and I loved her anyway; it was only a mistake –"

"A mistake!" Robert scoffed. "And I wonder why you were so forgiving. If you expect me now to believe your claims of _propriety_ about your wedding; I honestly thought –"

"Papa!" Mary could not let him finish the cruel accusation. "How can you possibly imagine –"

"I could never have imagined _this_ from _you_!" he flung back at her. "I have _nothing_ to say to you. I must speak to Bates." He swept from the room, crumpling the paper into a ball and flinging it over the table to land before Mary's plate, where she could see her own name sickeningly sprawled in print.

Her eyes pressed closed, after a moment of staring at it in horror. And then she fled the room, every limb seeming to tremble, Matthew following her as quickly as he could manage.

* * *

><p>After a lengthy, painful discussion with Bates and fevered telephone calls back and forth to London, it transpired that, as suspected, Sir Richard Carlisle was responsible for the publication. Vera Bates had threatened her husband with releasing it (no-one seemed quite sure how he'd even known), but Carlisle had managed to sit on the story while it suited him. With the war on, who would have cared about the younger exploits of the daughter of an Earl, now happily settled with children?<p>

But then, things had changed. The war had ended. Bates' wife had died… Yes, it looked like suicide, but considering the valet's devotion to the Crawley's, the motive was clear. The temptation of the two stories together seemed impossible to resist, and not even a friendship with Lady Rosamund would stand in the way of his profit.

And for that profit, he had thrown the family into scandal, torn their relationships apart, and cast criminal doubt onto his Lordship's valet.

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><p>Wearily, Matthew allowed the door to close behind him, leaving Mary exhausted and upset in the cool sanctity of their bedroom. As he wheeled slowly across the hall, he met Sybil at the bottom of the stairs. He'd not seen her since the breakfast table. He smiled weakly when she stopped.<p>

"Oh! Matthew... How's Mary?"

"Drained, and terribly upset," he sighed, but appreciated her asking. A thoughtful frown crossed his face. "You're not shocked," he observed.

Sybil shook her head. "No… I mean, I was – but I just don't see how it can matter now. Such fuss! Over a silly mistake she made seven years ago. I know – I understand that it's terrible for calling question onto Mr. Bates, and it's – bad for the family… But Matthew, why should that matter! The world is changing, it's moving forward! To blame Mary for an act of – passion – so long ago, when she's so happy now… It doesn't seem fair!" Something had released within her. "And as for Papa's insinuation about your – about _your_ marriage, well – he's an unkind fool!"

Matthew couldn't help but laugh. "Thank you…" he smiled gently. "I'm going to speak to him now, actually. Do you know, I – I think Mary would be very glad to see you," he suggested.

"Oh, I'm sure – yes. I'll go and see her now. Good luck with Papa…" She rolled her eyes, smiled reassuringly and went her way.

Matthew figured he'd need it.

Silence reigned for several moments after he went into the library. Lord Grantham was sitting at his desk, staring out of the window. The weight on his shoulders was palpable.

"Lord Grantham –" Matthew began hesitantly.

"Do you know," the Earl interrupted him immediately, "that suspicion of _murder_ is now cast onto Bates?"

Matthew swallowed. "I do. And it's… dreadful, and damned unfortunate, but it's not Mary's _fault_." This was difficult, horribly difficult.

"Without her foolish actions there would be no story, Matthew. Who knows! Without the knowledge of that story, the late Mrs. Bates would have had nothing to hold over her husband. All this mess started with Mary's foolishness. And now Bates, and we, must pay the price."

Matthew glowered, fighting to keep his voice calm.

"How can you possibly lay this on her? She was – foolish, yes, but if you'd take the time to listen he never gave her very much choice! She could have had no concept of what –"

"Of what consequences there might be?" Robert turned angrily to him. "No, no I don't suppose she could have! She didn't _think_. And to think, my own wife knew of it – was party to it!" His fist clenched on the desktop.

"It can't have been easy," Matthew swallowed. This was intolerable. His blood boiled at such slander on his wife, from her own father… But fighting would achieve nothing. His tone hardened. "But I think we need to consider what best can be done _now_, rather than dwelling on –"

"Yes, yes. I've been thinking about that. Murray's looking into things," Robert muttered quietly.

"Good. If you like, I'll –"

"And Cora and I were talking, only the other day, Matthew. Now that you're on your way to recovery – we're all so thankful, of course – we wondered if it mightn't be better for you to take back up in Crawley House. I know you appreciate your independence, and carrying on here isn't the most conducive to that, I'm sure. Your mother would be glad of it, she misses the girls, she must do. Wouldn't you say?"

His eyes glittered coldly, holding Matthew's gaze. The younger man was taken aback, his breaths coming quick and shallow as he unconsciously gripped at the arms of his wheelchair. Of course… Of course. It stung, it stung terribly. But there was no possible argument; nor _should_ there be, only… the barb behind it was bitter.

"Of course," he almost whispered, his expression hard and set, concealing the pain he felt. "We've imposed on you for far too long already. You've been – so kind, to put us up as long as you have."

"It was only right, Matthew."

He was family, of course. But now, with the revelation of Mary's indiscretion, with the trouble it had brought to _the family_… they were no longer welcome. There was nothing else he could say.

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><p>Within the space of a week, they moved back, out of the Abbey. Back <em>home<em>. It really was their home, and they were grateful for it.

To stay at the Abbey, they quickly realised, would have been intolerable anyway. Robert's sense of betrayal was acute. Tension thrummed between he and Cora, making for an unpleasant atmosphere over dinner. He could barely speak to Mary, barely even look at her, which angered Matthew who had to bite his tongue on more than one occasion. Mary was indignant, hurt, furious with Anna – if she'd have only _known_, she might have done something about it – and couldn't bear the way everyone looked at her (whether it was with pity or shame). Edith was quiet, a sense of guilt and shame pricking at her as she wondered whether it was all her fault for sending that letter. She'd tried to apologise to Mary, and she'd accepted it for what it was worth… which wasn't much. And Sybil seemed to be quietly frustrated by the lot of them.

In fact, the atmosphere had been simply foul. Mabel and Catherine had quickly picked up on it, and become tearful and fussy. It was horrible.

So it was with some relief, then, that the small family settled back into Crawley House with Isobel.

"You don't mind, Mother?" Matthew asked, for the hundredth time.

"Of course not, of course not my dear," Isobel fussed. She'd been shocked as well, admittedly – almost horrified at the secret, and that Matthew had _known_ all this time. It very nearly changed her opinion of Mary. But – it couldn't, not when Matthew loved her so much. And in fact, the awareness that Matthew _did_ love her so much, and had done knowing of her past all this time, had loved her and married her in spite of it… Well, in some ways it only increased Isobel's admiration for them, in the end.

"Thank you, so much, for this." Mary couldn't stop thanking her.

"My dears, this is your home!" Isobel chuckled. "Please, stop and be comfortable. Things will settle down." She looked sympathetically at them. "You know, it was bound to come out at some point during the investigation anyway. The manner was unfortunate, but… it's done, now. There's nothing you can do."

"I know," Mary smiled weakly.

"And the damage to the family is much less with you married and settled. It _will_ pass. We must believe that."

They tried. They really did. And as days passed, and the world did not end, and no abuse came, they began to succeed. It was difficult… and painful, to have had family ties cut so sharply – for that seemed to be what had happened. No calls came for them, and they did not call, not wishing to subject themselves to Robert's anger or Cora's misery. The Dowager Countess (wisely, perhaps) had retired to London to visit Rosamund, to escape the worst of the atmosphere and to see what could be done.

So though the silence was hurtful, it _did_ give them hope that… they could get through the future. Together. That was all that mattered.

But it was not long before even that seemed to shatter.

It happened not even a week later, one morning as they read quietly in the sitting room after breakfast. Matthew's eyes scanned down his newspaper, Mary curled on the settee with a novel, their fingers casually linked between them. Isobel was visiting a refugee centre, as usual, while the girls were being washed and dressed upstairs. Winter sunlight shone brightly into the room, the frost in the garden sparkling under it.

Everything was so peaceful.

Then; the door opening, voices in the hall. Molesley knocked quietly and stepped in. Matthew glanced up, unconcerned.

"Lord Grantham's to see you," he seemed to stutter.

His hesitance became clear as Robert stormed into the room behind him, his expression thunderous.

"Papa," Mary twisted, and rose quickly to her feet, helping Matthew to his.

Molesley quickly ducked out again while the Earl took a moment to gather himself. Finally he spluttered,

"As if you hadn't caused _enough_ bother with your foolishness!"

"What?" Mary exclaimed, unable to think. She'd done _nothing_, nothing he hadn't already known of… Matthew's eyes narrowed, feeling his muscles tense on edge as he waited for the lash of Robert's words. He'd never seen him so angry.

Robert gestured furiously. "Sybil – _Sybil!_ You have put ideas in her head."

"That's hardly fair –" Matthew started, to no avail.

"It _is_ fair!" Robert shouted. Mary winced; the whole house must hear it… "Your unthinking actions have impressed upon her, she has followed _your_ example –"

"For God's sake, be clear!" Matthew exclaimed in frustration. "Mary has set no – _example_ to Sybil, what on earth –"

"Don't speak of what you don't know, Matthew," Robert snapped at him. His gaze turned again, burning with anger, to Mary. "_Your_ actions put the idea into her head that she may do as she wished, and consequences be damned. That she might indulge these – appetites –"

"Papa, what's _happened_?"

"She's eloped. With the – the bloody _chauffer_."

"My God –"

"What! Branson?"

"_Yes_. Sybil has eloped with the chauffer. No-one saw her last night, she claimed illness and – this morning it was too late. They are gone; married by now. Edith's gone with Thomas, of all people, to search –"

"But I – I don't –"

"Sybil's thoughtlessness must be her own doing," Matthew tried to calm things down.

"Must it?" Robert shouted again. His eyes narrowed at Matthew. "And would she have had the idea, to elope, without _you_ having shown her that example?"

Mary gasped. Matthew could not believe it. His marriage being called into question again, to be slighted; it wasn't the same…

"It's hardly the same!" he bit back. "Mary and I did not _elope_; we married quickly and properly, that is all – for God's sake, you've been happy for us these past four years!"

"And have you forgotten my anger at the manner in which you did it? Do you think Sybil _understands_ the differences that might have made it acceptable for you to do so, where for Branson it is not? He's a _chauffer_!"

"I'm very sorry for it, but it is not our fault –"

"_You_ made her think it was alright! She's an impressionable girl –" His anger switched again to Mary, now. "Well. I hope you are quite satisfied with the consequences of your actions. To – take a lover, to snare Matthew to marry you in a similar fashion, I wouldn't doubt –"

"Papa there was _nothing_ improper –"

"Oh, how do you expect me to believe that of you now?" he flung the words spitefully at her. Mary's hand rose to cover her mouth as she wilted, her body trembling under the force of his anger.

It was enough for Matthew.

"I'll pardon you not to upset my wife by speaking to her in that manner." His cold, quiet words burned as his cold, piercing gaze did, into Robert.

Robert glared back at him. "I will speak to my eldest daughter how I choose, Matthew." He was angry, it was _their_ fault, his precious, innocent daughter had abandoned herself at their example and nothing could cool his rage. They deserved to know what they had done.

"Not in this house." Matthew's opinion on the matter was perfectly clear. Mary watched him with wide eyes, her heart pounding with affection even now as he defended her to her irrational father.

"And who gave you this house? Or do I need to remind you," Robert's voice lowered dangerously.

_That_ stung, bitterly, and Matthew drew in a sharp breath. He felt everything slipping away; everything he knew, his place in the world as he had known it. And then a soft, a beautifully soft voice called from the doorway.

"Papa?"

Mabel's head peeked around the door, her small hand curling around the frame. "Oh, hello Grandpapa!" She smiled, unsurely, and went over to him. She'd missed him!

At once, the hearts of all three adults in the room broke a little. The anger seemed to flood from Robert's body in the presence of his eldest granddaughter, and her perfect innocence. _She_ must know none of this… He smiled, and brushed softly over her hair.

"Well, hello –"

"Mabel, will you go to your Mama please?"

Mabel turned and blinked at her father. He looked cross, and Mama looked sad. She hoped _she_ hadn't done anything – but went immediately, as she was told, over to her. Mary sank down into a chair and took Mabel into her lap, pressing soft kisses to her blonde, ribboned curls to calm herself. Her father's words had hurt her terribly, more than she'd ever believed she could be hurt. _Sybil_… Stupid, stupid girl! But that she should be _blamed_… Thank God for Matthew.

Robert watched her, watched _them_, and questioned himself. Oh, he was angry – and he had a right to be angry. But he couldn't help the twinge of his heart to be reminded of definite reality of his grandchildren. That he might not have – well, he _wouldn't_, certainly not Bel – if his eldest daughter had _not_ eloped with his heir. Whatever they wanted to call it.

He almost startled when Matthew addressed him again.

"I think perhaps it'd be best if you left, now, Lord Grantham."

The young man stood sure, and strong, every muscle in his body evidently tensed in an instinct of protection. Robert had almost forgotten that Matthew had been a soldier, the strength he must bear of mind and body – and suddenly shame flared amongst his anger.

"I will show myself out."

"Do let us know when you hear of Sybil."

Robert simply nodded, his eyes narrowing at Matthew one last time before he left. The door closed with a ring of finality behind him.

"Papa?" Mabel twisted in Mary's lap, stretching a hand out to him. Emotion flooded over Matthew; despair and love and regret and a host of other things until he couldn't tell what on earth he was feeling.

"Oh, my darlings," he murmured, grabbing his cane to walk the few, difficult steps to their side. Perching carefully beside Mary, he wrapped his arms protectively around them as his wife sobbed against his shoulder in grief at her father's words, and their daughter clung to both of them, not understanding but somehow _knowing_ that they only needed that. And whatever else – they loved her, and Kit, very much. She was always sure of that, as Matthew's hand rubbed firmly over her little back.

**TBC**

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><p>AN: _There we are! The war's over, Matthew's healing, but they're not quite out of the woods yet. I very much hope you enjoyed it, and would love to know what you thought (particularly being so different in tone from last chapter) - reviews always make my day! :) Thank you so much for reading!_


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: _Oh boy, this chapter. ATiL's 2x08. "We're cursed, you and I" is literally the most appropriate quote._

_At this point, I'm too exhausted by it to say anything other than a lot of blood, sweat and tears have gone into making this chapter work (ok, so no blood. No, I lie! I've been chewing my lips and they bleed.), despite suffering from stress breakdowns, bad timings all round, work stress and the holiday of __EOlivet who has been my absolute rock through this fic! I have Silvestria to thank here, who has been an absolute star and worked her magic on this chapter, though both she and EOlivet (and a whole host of tumblr and twitter lovelies) have boosted me enormously as I've flapped and whined about it._

_Thank you ever so much for your responses to chapter 26 - I very much hope that you'll find this a satisfying resolution to it._

_Flu warning ahead..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven<strong>

"But why now?" Mary sighed, holding a hand idly out for Catherine to pat-a-cake on before the little girl wandered away to seek diversion elsewhere.

"Because now it seems Branson has a more secure position – if you can call a journalist that – Sybil thinks it's the best time to re-introduce him to the family…" Edith offered, as Catherine decided that she was her next source of amusement.

"As good a time as any could be for that, I suppose," Violet muttered beside her. Mary smiled at that, and rolled her eyes. But it was only a passing humour.

"That's as may be, but why must she drag Matthew and I into it? You know he's still furious with Papa. They've not spoken at all since… all that."

Indeed, the last two months had been shadowed by an uncomfortable film of tension over the Crawleys. Not once had they been to the Abbey. Not once had Matthew spoken to Robert. He refused; it was not their place to apologise, he believed, and so he was steadfast in his reluctance to make the first move. Instead he'd thrown his limited energies into doing what he could to help Bates' situation. Thanks to the efforts of Violet and Rosamund, and society's reluctance to openly contradict them, Mary's part in the scandal seemed to have dropped by the wayside somewhat. What did people care now for the indiscretions of a woman happily and successfully married (to a 'war hero', no less!) for the past four years? Instead, the gossips had latched onto Bates as a source of fascination, leading to very uncomfortable attention from all sides. Limited though his abilities were, Matthew was doing what he could, but to little avail. An arrest could come any day, he imagined.

Only once had Cora visited them; and even then she had seemed weak and drained. The conflict had taken a toll on her, as it had on Mary, and they had shared a quiet understanding over the stubbornness of their husbands. Cora had pleaded for them to reconsider things; that if they would only try, Robert would see – he missed them, all of them – but, unlike her mother, Mary happened to agree with her husband. There had been too much bitterness, and she had not visited again.

"He must do eventually though, surely!" Edith appealed to her sister, before being distracted by Catherine tugging at her hands. "What? Oh, here, Kit. Shall I? Alright." She smiled fondly as she pinned a delicately jewelled bow back into Catherine's hair, pulling out a little pocket mirror so that she could see the handiwork. "He's still the heir, you know. Their standoff can't last forever."

"I know!" Mary rubbed her hands together, leaning back into the armchair and shaking her head. "But try telling _him_ that. And I don't blame him, you know. I can understand Papa having been angry at me, I'd have expected that… But I never imagined him turning on Matthew. He won't see that we owe Sybil any sort of favour."

"No, my dear, and he'd be quite right," Violet sniffed. "But Edith is correct. Perhaps you need to look on this as a favour to yourselves, rather than Sybil. What better opportunity to break the silence, than when your father's energies are divided between you?"

Mary simply arched an eyebrow. "That's as may be. But are you sure such a dinner is wise in the first place? Papa will hit the roof if he doesn't know about it beforehand... Is it really sensible of Mama to invite them without his knowing?"

Edith shrugged. "She reckons he won't have them at all, given the choice; so might as well not give him the chance to refuse. We can only try… Please say you'll come, though? Whatever happens, I know Papa really would like to fix things – whatever he says."

"I'll have to talk to Matthew about it," was all she could concede.

* * *

><p>She'd been right. Matthew did not agree.<p>

"I don't see why we should – grovel back at Sybil's beck and call, merely because she's chosen _this_ moment to reappear from Dublin and make herself know again. We don't owe them anything, Mary. It'll only make things even more horribly awkward than they would be anyway."

He blinked resolutely up at the ceiling, fingers twisting distractedly into Mary's hair as he lay with his arms around her.

"I know that, darling," she sighed against his neck, her head nestled comfortably on his shoulder. "But Granny said –"

"And we must take our cues from Cousin Violet, is that it?"

"Do be quiet and listen! You're right, it _will_ be horribly awkward. It would be whenever it were to happen – and it must, sometime, Matthew. You're not so naïve as to imagine that you might never speak to my father again."

"Hm."

"So why not soften the blow by joining forces with Sybil and – Tom? Papa will be occupied enough with his disapproval at them to take much notice of his anger with us. Don't you think?"

Matthew did think about this for a moment, quite seriously. His eyes drifted shut as he considered it, a quiet sigh escaping him at the sensation of Mary's palms massaging over his thighs. At least, he supposed, he might walk back into the Abbey with a shred of dignity about him, now – despite the damned stick he still needed for anything beyond a few steps.

"You're quite determined, aren't you, my dear?" he eventually murmured.

"I think we must. You know the longer it goes on, the harder it will be." She softened her words with a series of tender kisses along his jaw. "And Bel misses Isis terribly! I think it's a prudent opportunity, and – I _would_ like to see Sybil."

Matthew smiled, and stroked her cheek fondly. His quarrel was not, and would never be, with Mary.

"Of course, darling. Well… have we been properly invited? We can't just turn up because Sybil's asked."

"Granny wishes it. I think that's enough for it to count, don't you? Anyway, Mama's organised it all apparently. Papa doesn't even know Sybil's expected – but that's Mama's folly, if it all goes to pot."

"At least that _will_ take the attention off of us…" he supposed.

"Mm." Frowning suddenly, Mary shifted onto her back and pressed her clenched fists to her eyes, breathing deeply. Concerned, Matthew twisted and leant up – she looked awfully pale.

"Darling? Are you quite well?" He brushed a few strands of chestnut hair from her forehead. It wasn't the first time this had happened in the past few days, and he was beginning to worry. All these reports of the flu flying around…

"Quite fine," she whispered through clenched teeth. Her brow tightened for a moment, then relaxed as she blew out a gentle breath. There was a fine glisten of sweat on her forehead, Matthew noticed. She had been terribly drained since all the trouble; his own debilitations had only been a further toll on her as she'd supported his tireless efforts to walk again. He carried on stroking her hair away from her face, watching her with a warm, affectionate gaze.

"Well," he murmured softly. "We shan't be going anywhere at all tomorrow if you're unwell."

* * *

><p>As it happened, they were left little choice in the matter after a hasty telephone call came from the Abbey over luncheon.<p>

"They want Molesley?" Mary asked incredulously.

"Seems so. Carson's not at all well – quite out of it, apparently. And Carson won't have Thomas serve at dinner – oh, I don't know."

"Well, I think it's a cheek to ask, after everything. But, I – can't see any reason why not, I suppose. To the Abbey we all shall go!"

Mabel sat up excitedly, from where she'd been lying on the floor talking Catherine through her favourite storybook.

"We're going to Grandpapa and Grandmama's house? Been a long time!" she beamed at her parents.

"See Isis?" Catherine's interest perked at the familiar names.

"I'm sorry, darling," Mary smiled apologetically. "It'll be quite after your bedtime, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

"Definitely after your bedtime," Matthew agreed as he walked stiffly over to the settee, hooking his cane on the back before he sat down and allowed Catherine to clamber into his lap. He glanced at Mary, then, picking up on her weary tone. "Though it all depends on how Mama is feeling," he said firmly. She did look a little sickly, still.

"Dear Mama," Catherine mumbled into his tie.

"I shall be perfectly alright," she insisted. "I _am_ perfectly alright! You do worry over nothing, darling." There was a fond remonstrance behind her tone. He wasn't to know how she'd had to lie down, sweating and shaking and feeling very sick indeed for a good hour that morning. This opportunity could not be passed up, she would not let it. "Anyway, do you really think your mother would allow me out if she thought I wasn't up to it?"

Matthew found he couldn't really argue with that.

* * *

><p>It was with great trepidation, then, that they found themselves approaching the Abbey early that evening. The new chauffer, Pratt, was a quiet fellow; as different to Branson as Matthew supposed it was possible to be. As he eased himself out of the car, brushing off Mary's hand while he leaned heavily on his stick, he glanced up at the familiar old stones of the house. Every feeling he'd had about this place seeped to the forefront of his memory, almost overwhelming him… At times it had been dread and cold, blinding fear, at others comfort, familiarity, reassurance. Now, he wasn't sure. It seemed a physical effort simply to step inside, an effort far beyond the usual trouble of his stiff and unsure legs.<p>

Of course, there was no Carson to greet them. That was unfortunate. Matthew suspected that a large ounce of Mary's determination to come stemmed from her care for the old butler. That made him smile, at least. Thomas showed them through instead, apologising for the difficulties. As their steps rang on the cold, tiled floor, Matthew's breaths drew quicker and shallower, every muscle in his body tensing in readiness. That did not make his walking any easier, a fact which only agitated him further. It was only Mary's hands linked through his elbow, rubbing soothingly over his arm that calmed him.

He breathed deeply as Thomas opened the door to the drawing room. He'd not been here since that day, had not seen Robert since he'd spurned him in anger…

"Mr. Crawley, Lady Mary and Mrs. Crawley, your Lordship…" Thomas ushered them smoothly in.

Matthew first noticed the more welcoming faces of Edith, and Violet – Cora's apprehensive but pleased – before he turned his eyes to Robert. A stiff, hesitant smile flitted over his lips as the Earl approached them.

"Isobel, it's good to see you! Mary, dear…" he greeted them with a great deal of charm and pleasantness, which frosted slightly as he looked past them to Matthew, who'd unhooked his arm from Mary's grasp. "Matthew…"

"Good evening." He took Robert's proffered hand briefly, with a tight smile. "You're well, I hope?"

"Yes, thank you." It was a start. Robert sighed deeply. Being such a man as he was, he knew this could not easily be repaired. But it was something, and he couldn't help the flit of pleasure at seeing them again, even amongst all the bitterness their very presence brought to mind. "It's good to see you walking so well," he said honestly.

"Not very well, not yet," Matthew raised his eyebrows. "But it's an improvement."

And then they seemed to run out of things to say to each other. A terse, uncomfortable silence covered the room until Cora breathlessly intervened.

"Of course it is!" she smiled, and beckoned them further in to sit. Matthew declined, but stood beside Mary's chair with his hand on the back of it. Cora looked pleased, and sank back into her own seat, pressing a hand to her waist to ease the discomfort that had been niggling at her all evening. Apprehension, she was sure that was all it was. "How are the girls?"

That, at least, was a topic of comfort to all of them. They readily settled to it, Matthew's lips quirking in quiet pride as Mary and his mother spoke of them. Still, though, tension bristled in the air. No matter how hard they tried, Mary's scandal was not forgotten; nor could Bates' predicament be, as much as Matthew and Robert's terse standoff could not. They did not address each other directly, responding only to the ladies; though Mary left most of the discourse to the others, only contributing quietly when required. If Robert was truly sorry for the pain he had caused them, he did little to show it… But, at least, this was an improvement on silence; even if Matthew knew they would not come again before receiving a proper apology.

Before long, though, there was no more that could be said about Mabel or Catherine, and the air hung thick with discomfort once more. Matthew shifted on his feet. Mary twisted and glanced up at him; he touched her cheek and smiled quickly.

"Well," Violet eventually muttered. "I know Carson is unwell; I did not realise his health had a bearing on the timings for dinner…"

"Oh, it's thrown everything out, I'm sure," Isobel smiled politely.

"It really can't be long now–" Cora soothed, glancing from the older women to the door. And, as if on cue, it opened.

Instead of summoning them to dinner, though, Thomas cleared his throat and…

"Lady… Sybil, your Lordship. And Mr. Branson."

Robert leapt to his feet, as everyone else held their breaths.

"What?"

"Papa –"

The very air seemed to darken with the Earl's face.

"How dare you simply waltz back in here as if nothing had changed –" he immediately glowered.

"Robert, they only want to –"

"Not as if nothing has changed!" Branson stepped forwards angrily. "_Everything's_ changed, and now Sybil wants –"

As the argument raged before them, Matthew glanced down at Mary, who only raised her eyebrows in response. Her grandmother had been right on one point; with Robert's fury directed at his youngest daughter, the tension on themselves had eased considerably. It _had_ been a foolish idea, and Cora's expression seemed to reflect it now as she watched in something akin to horror. Violet tried to intervene, but only once before her objection was lost amidst the shouting.

Matthew's fingers gripped the back of Mary's chair tightly. The last he had seen of Robert had been a torrent of abuse and harsh words thrown out; and now he could only see the same. However foolish Sybil might have been (and she really had), he couldn't help the sting of bitter disappointment at the harshness of the man he'd come to consider as a father. He only hoped – God, he hoped he'd never have cause to, but he couldn't help his mind skipping to the future, when Mabel and Catherine would be of such an age… They'd be foolish, too; wasn't every young person? Whatever they might do, he only hoped that he would never treat them as he was witnessing now. He could barely imagine raising his voice to them, let alone… this. The very thought made him slightly sick.

"Robert!" Cora eventually exclaimed, the Countess now looking distinctly unwell herself as she recognised her folly. "Please. That's enough."

"Very well," the Earl simmered, turning back then to Sybil. "But if you thought you might come here and earn my blessing –"

"Papa, I only wanted to _see_ you," Sybil exclaimed tearfully, clutching Branson's hand beside her. She straightened resolutely, raising her chin. "And until you want to see us, Tom and I will be at the Grantham Arms in the village. Tom…"

With a last, pained glance at her father, Sybil grasped her husband's hand and swept from the room, and the house.

Thomas' announcement that dinner was finally ready fell rather flat after that.

Conversation was difficult. Robert fumed quietly, Cora stared into her dinner plate and everyone else seemed to fidget uncomfortably, with the exception of Violet.

"I do hope this puts things into perspective," she muttered (not quite under her breath) to Robert, next to her. Her pointed glance across the table at Mary and Matthew left her son in little doubt as to her meaning.

"Mama. You must leave me to manage my own affairs," he grumbled back at her.

"Must I? I see. Quite the fine job you're doing of it," she snipped back.

Before his lips could part to make a pithy reply, Cora pushed her chair delicately back from the table to his other side.

"Do you know," she gasped, "the awful truth is I'm not at all well. If you'll excuse me, I must go and lie down…"

"Of course," Robert tersely acknowledged. She'd been a fool to invite Sybil; he put her plight now down to little more than displeasure at her scheme having failed. "I'll sleep in my dressing room."

Matthew pushed awkwardly to his feet as Cora slipped out.

"Dear, I hope it's nothing serious," he offered quietly as he eased back down.

"Nothing at all, I'm sure," Robert insisted.

Then, though, Molesley nearly knocked Matthew's glass over as he poured the wine. It was quickly determined that he, too, was very definitely unwell. There didn't seem to be any more denying it, not with Carson's condition too (and another of the maids, Anna informed them).

"I'll call for Doctor Clarkson –" Edith stood up and excused herself.

"Why don't you drive for him, while I call?" Isobel smiled. "I'm sure there's something I can do – if you wouldn't mind, that is," she raised her eyebrows at Lord Grantham. Surely he could not refuse any assistance, when things seemed to be falling apart, so?

This seemed to be what had occurred to the Earl as well, as he scrubbed a hand over his face in despair.

"No, no, I – don't suppose I do," he sighed.

Not even Violet's quip about cholera outbreaks could raise a smile, now. It was as though every scrap of energy had been drained or sapped from the room. Despite the mess of dinner, they waited with some patience until Robert released them. There seemed no sense in continuing.

"That's quite alright, dear," Violet fussed as she stood up. "Call the car round, and I'll take myself away."

"We'll wait for Mother, if that's alright," Matthew said quietly, standing up. They had little choice, after all.

"Of course."

The car summoned, they all moved into the hall while Violet waited. Robert glanced at Matthew, then his mother. "Look, if you don't mind I'll turn straight in. Goodnight, Mama."

The evening had been uncomfortable enough. Robert was not quite ready to be forced into reconciling with Matthew, not when his pain over Sybil was still so fresh. No matter what his rational mind told him, such a feeling of betrayal and hurt was not something that could be so lightly put away.

As he headed wearily to the stairs, Mary whispered quietly to Matthew that she would see her grandmother out, and slipped away down the hall with Violet.

Left to his own devices for the minute, Matthew wandered over to the little table in the corner, resting his stick against it. Upon it was the gramophone he and Mary had given her parents for Christmas the year before. How long ago that seemed, now. Had they been happy, then? He thought they had been. The shadow of war had gone… but it had seemed hollow. He remembered watching Mary dance with her father from his wheelchair, and the memory made his throat tighten with emotion. As soon as one shadow lifted, another descended… Were they ever to be free? He'd hoped so dearly that this evening might prove a success, but that seemed dashed now, too.

Idly, he flipped through the records on the side. Not that one, nor that… There.

_Look For the Silver Lining_.

A gentle smile curved onto his lips as he slid the record from its sleeve and put it into place. The familiar crackle of the needle cheered him, as the strains of the first bar echoed around the cavernous hall.

What did any of it matter, he wondered now? Oh, well of course it mattered… but at the same time, it didn't. The dark cloud of Robert's anger, of what they had lost, of bitterness, could not matter in the end. He had Mary, _they_ had their precious daughters, he could walk again, they had a future to look forward to. The brightness of all that could chase away the darkest cloud, he was sure; no matter how painful it was to bear. They could bear it together.

Quietly he allowed the music and the words to wash over him as his fingers tapped quietly against the edge of the table. When Mary's soft voice startled him from his reverie, he found himself quite choked with memory.

"No sign of your mother, yet?" she asked, pressing a cool, gloved hand to her forehead.

"I think she's playing nurse still," Matthew smiled.

Mary nodded, and glanced at the record player beside him. A similar surge of memories flooded through her mind at the song, and she raised her eyes to her husband's, feeling prickling warmth behind her eyes.

"You always did like this one," she said softly.

"Seemed rather fitting. I think it was from a show that flopped – _Zip Goes A Million_, or something…"

"Mm."

She sucked in a deep breath against the clammy heat coursing through her, and smiled fondly when, on a whim, Matthew held his hands out to her. He wanted to dance… Of course he did.

Stepping into his arms, the simple feel of her gloved palms slipping over his as they came together made Matthew shiver. He pulled her in closely to him, his hand edging further around her back until his arm was almost entirely around her. When they'd last played this song, in this hall… the simple prospect of dancing with his wife had been an absolute impossibility, and now…

His eyes fluttered closed, cheek resting softly against hers as they swayed in gentle circles, emotion and music and contentedness washing over them. Mary sighed happily; to be warm, and safe in Matthew's arms – and then, she realised the difference, as his hips nudged against hers, guiding her steps.

"Don't you need your stick, darling?" she almost whispered. The air was so close, it couldn't be disturbed…

"You are my stick," he murmured, smiling against her cheek as his lips brushed a soft, fond kiss there. She chuckled, shifting somehow even closer into him. It was a silly thing to say, but – well, in so many ways it was true. She'd supported him through everything, had borne him up when he'd been struck down and had given so, so much to him. A sigh trembled through him as they turned, there was nothing at all in his comprehension beyond her.

Mary pressed a fleeting kiss to his neck. "We were almost a show that flopped," she laughed softly, allowing his warmth and strength to support her. Thank god for that _almost_. But she didn't expect, then, the heavy sigh that shuddered from Matthew's chest.

His lips were almost against her ear. "Oh, God, Mary… I'm so, so sorry for all the trouble I've brought you. Your life would've been far easier if –"

"How many times, you mustn't be!" she exclaimed quietly, her hands tightening in his, and on his shoulder. Matthew eased back and looked at her, his expression etched with emotion and care. "Darling, I wouldn't have altered a moment, you know."

"Not one?" His eyebrow quirked up incredulously as he thought of his absences, their fights, the worry she'd borne over him, his injury and now this rotten business… Oh, they had blessings enough (the two most precious he could imagine, as well as countless pleasures they'd found together) that could overwhelm all of that – but he was still sorry for the rest.

"Not a single one." Her features relaxed into a beautiful smile. "I've been unhappy with – circumstances, but – never with you."

"Oh, my dear..." He pulled her closely into his arms again as they turned, and slowly span, with more shuffles than steps but they didn't notice any of that. For a few moments they didn't speak, relishing in the simple wonder that they could dance together, now. They felt indestructible.

Of course they could face anything. Matthew smiled to himself. "You know, Cousin Violet came to me… and told me to take you and the girls away, to – Manchester, or even America, just for a few months until all this blew over."

Mary tensed in his arms as she frowned up at him. "When was this?"

"A while ago… Just after it all broke," he shook his head. "She reckoned your Papa would come around quicker if it seemed we might leave for good."

"Classic Granny… What did you say?" Her eyes fluttered closed as he eased forward to press his lips to her forehead, smiling as the pleasant sensation cooled her. When he replied, his voice was low, and warm, and comforting, so easy to sink into…

"That it was not in our nature to run from our problems, and that I would not – remove the girls from their home, over a – silly argument with your father. I couldn't uproot them like that, or you; not when you'd done nothing to warrant reproach. It wouldn't have been fair." His voice trailed into a low murmur as he gazed at her, lost in the music and her deep, dark eyes and thoughts of their children and the life they had built together. He would not spoil that. He couldn't.

"Of course not!" Mary murmured. Darling Matthew, how well he understood things… And how well he'd known not to trouble her with it, when she'd been drained enough as it was.

In that moment, they understood each other and their lives and themselves perfectly and completely, and that familiar tug of desire sparked through them like a force. Matthew blinked, once, forgetting everything as they span or the room span, he couldn't tell any more but she was gazing so tenderly up at him and he _loved_ her, so impossibly much and… nothing else mattered, as his head lowered to hers in a quiet, burning, pervasive kiss that said everything they could possibly think of.

It was delicious, and sweet, and slow, and their eyes closed as the sensation overtook all else. Mary was dimly aware of Matthew's hand drawing hers closer between them, her arm slipping more surely around his neck, his fingers slipping over her palm in a warm caress as her hand lay against the solid reassurance of his chest.

Mary focussed every ounce of her concentration on the sweetness and the softness of his lips, his arms, taking long, delicate tastes of him and then… everything seemed to catch up with her; a wave of dizziness and nausea so fierce that she swayed, her head falling to rest against his chest as her hands clutched at his lapels.

"Darling?" Matthew rubbed his hands over her arms, concern pooling in his gut. She'd look pale all evening, he should have known, they shouldn't have come at all… "What is it?"

"I don't – I don't feel at all well all of a sudden," she gasped, looking up at him but the motion only made her sway again, and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

Panic flitted through Matthew. How had he not realised? He felt her forehead; it was hot but damp, she shivered slightly… Oh, God. He should have insisted she rest the moment he knew Carson was unwell! Now Cora, Molesley, Mary… God, Mary.

"You're going to lie down," he said firmly, shame spearing through him at having urged her to dance when she was unwell. "Come, darling."

"Here?"

"Yes. I don't care, your Papa can think what he likes. I'll see if I can catch – Clarkson –"

"The library then, darling…"

Matthew nodded. He couldn't support her upstairs, not by himself, and he didn't want to miss anyone. Together, they moved to the library, where the fire was still burning low in the grate as Mary sank down into the deep, red settee. There wasn't a blanket… Matthew pulled his jacket off, tucking it tenderly over her in absence of anything else. Damn, he'd left his stick… Awkwardly, he leaned to the fireplace and pulled the bell, hoping it could still summon _someone_, before making his way as quickly as he could manage back to the front hall. Clarkson must still be here, if Mother hadn't reappeared yet… He tried to quash the panic rising in his throat. He'd never seen Mary look so weak, she was _not_ weak… God, he was a fool!

* * *

><p>Clarkson had been on his way out when Matthew found him, thankfully in time. Mrs Hughes had been with them, and Isobel, and between them Mary had been moved upstairs to bed while the housekeeper promised to tell Lord Grantham. He could not mind.<p>

A restless night followed. Isobel returned home, but Matthew refused, spending the night curled beside Mary, who tossed and sweated through the night. Her corset had been so tight, no wonder she couldn't breathe… Every sign, Clarkson declared, pointed to the flu; her symptoms as carefully described by Matthew matching Cora's and Carson's in all particulars. Matthew could barely forgive himself; at least Molesley wasn't so bad as they'd thought…

When Mary awoke, dressed now in an old nightdress that Anna had recovered from somewhere, she insisted that she was really perfectly alright.

"You do fuss, dear!" she exclaimed at Matthew's worried expression. Sitting up now, in bed, she really felt quite normal. She couldn't have the flu, she was sure.

Until, that was, a violent wave of nausea overtook her again. Luckily, Cora's worsening symptoms through the night had prepared Matthew for this, and he quickly drew a bowl from behind him as Mary vomited into it, and again several more times over the next hour. She was hot, and tired, and weak… Looking back now, it had been creeping up for a while, she'd been trying to ignore it, but now that was impossible.

She watched through bleary eyes as Matthew stood up, shuffling across the room to hand another bowl to Anna before returning to her side. His hand was cool on her forehead, the cold, damp cloth filled with ice against her skin felt glorious… She smiled weakly up at him. "You're such a darling… Thank you…"

"Don't thank me," he smiled, doing his best to mask his concern. He even tried a laugh, but it came out as more of a nervous chuckle. "I think it's my turn, don't you think? I can never equal all that you've done for me, my love, but I can do this."

"You know you're not allowed to say things like that," she breathed, eyes fluttering shut. And within a moment she was asleep again.

It was good for her to rest, Clarkson had said. The curtains were open, light flooded into the room and shone off her glistening skin. Matthew stayed for a while longer, stroking his hand over and over her hair, finding as much comfort in it for himself as he hoped it offered her. She looked so delicate and weak, but… not too bad, Clarkson had said. Not too bad.

When he left the room some time later, finding the air of the corridor to be cooler in comparison, he had just about reached the top of the stairs when he found himself faced with Robert, coming from the other direction. Both men instantly stiffened.

"Matthew – Mrs. Hughes told me about your arrangements last night." Matthew simply nodded. It took Robert a moment to be able to ask, "How is Mary?"

Matthew didn't miss the genuine concern seeping into his tone, and he appreciated it.

"Not very well," he replied honestly, and flatly. "Though Clarkson doesn't seem too worried. I'm just going down to phone Mother, to see how the girls are."

"Of course. They'll be anxious."

"Not too much, I hope," Matthew suddenly worried. And God, he hoped there was no reason for them to be. Licking his lips, he tried to stop his mind spiralling. "How's Cora?"

Robert shook his head wearily. "Not good, I'm afraid." How he regretted his thoughts of the previous evening, now… He was terrified. Matthew saw the flicker over his expression, realised the seriousness of what was happening, and frowned.

"You should fetch Sybil," he said simply.

"I can't," Robert glowered. "I won't –"

"For God's sake!" Matthew exclaimed harshly. "It's her mother, her sister; you know they might –" He couldn't even verbalise it; even to nearly have done so sent a shockwave of fear through him. Trembling, he pressed the Earl. "You must."

Robert flinched backwards at Matthew's force. He was right, he knew it, and a sudden wave of shame encompassed him as he nodded slowly.

"Is it my fault, Matthew?" His voice sounded terribly small, and distant. Cora had been so weak and withdrawn these past few months; if he'd have behaved differently, she might have been stronger, more resistant… And now he might lose her.

Matthew's lips pressed bitterly together. "It's too late to think of that now," was all he could manage, his voice shaking slightly.

Another sharp nod from the Earl, before he as much as fled down the stairs. Matthew watched him before following slowly down, his fingers curling with a hard grip around the banister, his thoughts spiralling in a similar way to his father-in-law's. Mary had been so terribly weary over the last month or so, surely more susceptible to things; perhaps if he hadn't been so stubborn… if he'd have made the first move… God, if he lost her now – no. He couldn't even think that. It was impossible.

On his return from the telephone, a short while later, Matthew made sure to stop by Carson's room. The butler seemed well enough, he was pleased to note, if still very weak. Mary would want to know how he was doing though; and her mother, naturally, so Matthew went there, too.

What a mistake that had been.

The frankly terrifying sight of the Countess, bathed in sweat and writhing in discomfort as blood streamed from her nose before she vomited again and again sent fear lancing through Matthew. He gripped the doorframe, hanging back, shaking slightly. Edith was doing her best, Cora's maid was there, but they looked just as terrified as Matthew felt. When Robert walked in, followed by Sybil (thank God), it startled him.

If she lasted the night, she'd live… Matthew couldn't process it, it seemed too high a risk. And then he realised that somehow, they were all there – what about Mary? Swallowing hard, he walked as quickly as he could to her room, dreading what he might find when he got there.

To his relief, she was sitting up quite calmly, her long hair in a braid over her shoulders. He trembled with gratitude as he sank to the bed beside her.

"Darling, how do you feel?" he asked, clasping her hand tightly.

"I'm sure it isn't the flu," she murmured, shaking her head a little as she peered at him through half open eyes. "I'm just a little sick, and so very tired…"

"I know, I know," he soothed her. He noticed the vases of flowers Anna had put around, masking the smell of sickness and sweat that clung to the room. "But Doctor Clarkson says –"

"Doctor Clarkson is stupid," she whispered faintly. Her head rolled back against the pillow, and Matthew's hand instantly sought her cheek, brushing at the damp, sickly sheen over her skin. He swallowed hard against the lump of emotion in his throat. She was so _fragile_, so delicate, his Mary…

"Hush, my darling, everything's alright." He felt the desperation creep into his tone, tears pricking behind his eyes. She was slipping from him, he couldn't let her… "Bel and Kit send their love, I spoke to them on the telephone just now. So you must do what Clarkson says, and –"

"Oh!" Mary's eyes widened with her smile, as she made a more conscious effort to sit up before Matthew eased her down again. "The girls, they will be thrilled."

"What? I'm – sure they will, when you're well enough to see them –" Over and over, he stroked her hand, her face, brushing her hair back, cooling her hot neck.

"No, I mean – Clarkson – I don't have the flu, I know my own – Matthew!"

She gripped his arm, barely allowing him time to grab for the bowl on her bedstand before she was sick again, and again, sweat glistening on her brow from the exertion.

Matthew felt sick himself, though not from any flu, he was sure. Sybil came in after a while, and after a great deal of persuasion, he went downstairs for a bite of lunch; for a bite was all he could manage. Barely even that. On his way down, he bumped into Clarkson coming from the Countess' room, and Matthew quickly entreated him to see Mary again. Just in case.

"I was on my way there anyway," the doctor smiled reassuringly. Matthew nodded. At least she wasn't alone, now, and Clarkson would tell him if there was need to worry.

As soon as he sat down, after having gathered himself only a few morsels of food (his rational mind told him to eat well, but he couldn't), Edith glanced sympathetically across, having only appeared moments ago herself.

"How's Mary?"

"Alright, I think," Matthew shook his head, trying to convince himself. "Or she doesn't seem so bad as your Mama, at least, I'm – sorry. Though the illness has made her rather – confused."

"What do you mean?" Edith frowned, raising her fork to her lips.

"Oh, I don't know… She's very weak, she seems convinced that –"

"Mr. Crawley?" He sat bolt upright as Anna appeared at the door, her voice high and breathless. "I'm sorry, Doctor Clarkson says you'd better come up -"

The words hadn't left the maid's mouth before Matthew was up, grabbing his stick and making for the door with his jaw set in anguish, his eyes wild with worry.

Edith rose uselessly to her feet as they hurried out. Sybil's renewed presence in the house had left Edith rather superfluous – she didn't know what to do. But Mary was her sister... After a moment's hesitation, she smoothed her skirt and went after them, only to find herself shooed away from the room.

"Not now," Anna's expression twisted into apology at having to refuse her.

"What?" Edith cried.

"I'm – sorry, Milday, but – please, you must give them a moment."

A bitter lump of panic and sorrow rose in Edith's throat, but there was nothing she could do. Her mother… She must be needed there. She turned agitatedly away and swept down the corridor.

The corridor stood empty for a long time.

Clarkson re-emerged eventually, his hand passing wearily over his face. He was tired… The flu was exhausting, devastating. He'd understood Matthew's anguish and concern the moment he'd seen the young man burst into his wife's bedchamber.

It was only a few moments before Matthew walked slowly from the room, his head down.

"Are you alright?" Clarkson asked him quietly. Matthew looked up, his expression dazed and vacant. It hadn't sunk in. He shook his head, as if to clear it.

"I don't – I hardly know –" His voice cracked and caught in his throat, and he looked quickly away, blinking back the sting of tears as he choked with emotion.

Clarkson clasped his shoulder warmly; a firm, reassuring touch. Matthew could only nod gratefully, still struggling to comprehend it. _Mary_…

Before he could process it any further, or Clarkson offer him anything more, Sybil practically hurtled around the corner.

"Doctor Clarkson! Oh – Matthew, how is Mary?"

"She's –" God, the words simply would not come, but it didn't matter anyway as Sybil's panicked tirade continued.

"Please – you must come, it's Mama –"

There was an urgency to her tone that was impossible to ignore, and it seeped through the numbness in Matthew's chest. He couldn't feel, couldn't think, just yet – could only follow.

The reason for her haste was obvious the moment they entered the room. Cora lay, barely moving, her chest heaving with guttering, wracking breaths as her weak body trembled. Robert clutched her hand fiercely, looking as bewildered as Matthew felt.

He, Edith and Sybil stood back (the maid was still there, standing by Robert's shoulder, he noticed) as Clarkson hurried to the bedside. But within moments, the grave shake of his head told them there was nothing more to be done.

"Good God," Robert whispered, his voice shaking badly.

"Talk to her," Clarkson quietly encouraged him, and glanced back to the others.

Cora's daughters drew around her. Matthew dimly heard their quiet voices; Robert's apologies, his pleas for forgiveness, his declarations of love… All rang bitterly in Matthew's ear. Watching through pained eyes, he hung back with Clarkson, allowing the family a moment. Only Mary… God, she should be here, but – she couldn't – _Mary – _

"Mary?" Cora's weak voice croaked. Matthew blinked, lips parting as he stared at the bed.

Edith and Sybil at once remembered what they'd each seen in Matthew's eyes at the last mention of her, and turned questioningly to him. He blinked, his gaze still slightly vacant, as if he didn't understand.

"Matthew," Robert pleaded with him quietly.

Coming to his senses, Matthew shuffled the few steps to Cora's bedside. He picked up the Countess' hand… So cold, her grip was weak. He shivered involuntarily.

"Where is she?" Cora gasped, her voice so faint Matthew could barely hear. "Is she alright?"

Matthew's lips pressed tightly together as his eyes filled with tears. Glancing between his wife's parents, he simply nodded, forcing his voice at last from his throat.

"She's – pregnant." He felt his body tremble as everything released from him, relief and disbelief and the purity of joy swirling among his sorrow at _this_, that Mary _should_ be with her mother, it was impossible…

"What?"

"It – wasn't the flu at all," he whispered, feeling odd and dizzy as the weight had flown from his shoulders. He'd been worried, terrified – he couldn't quite place his feelings, not now... "We all thought – well, she was sick, and there was no way to know –"

His words died on his lips as Cora seemed to fade before his eyes. In terror, he prised his hand from her grasp only to see it fall limply to the bed.

He heard Edith's loud gasp, and an inhuman wail from Sybil that pierced through his heart. Trembling, he raised wide, horrified eyes to Robert, who sat rigid and emotionless. Matthew recognised the mask at once, glanced desperately back to Clarkson, who hurried over and pressed his fingers to Cora's slender wrist, then her neck… and shook his head.

Matthew felt dizzy. Guilt and grief clouded his mind, this was _wrong_… He felt a sudden intruder upon the family's loss, and could not bear to witness it. And all while he was so desperately _thankful_ for Mary; _this…_ Shakily, he rose to his feet, and backed out of the room. His departure went unnoticed.

When he got to Mary's room, he found her still sleeping, as he'd left her. As he perched by her side, and picked her hand up softly between his own – there was life there, warmth, he had to make sure just for a moment – his heart ached and overflowed with mingling love and sorrow. Tears pricked hotly behind his eyes, and finally he allowed them to fall.

God, how he loved her… He leaned over her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. He hadn't known… Of course he hadn't known, he'd never been with her at this stage before – and his mother had been so busy to notice – had there been signs? Looking back, he wondered. Mary had told him earlier that she'd quietly suspected, but had believed her fatigue and sickness to be only a result of the strain of things as they were; and so she'd remained silent. And with the flu falling so hard on the family, no-one thought to question it… Only darling Mary, and he'd thought her delirious.

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, watching her beautiful face, perfect in sleep. Only sleep. Every wound-in emotion of the past two days flooded over him as he wept, and tenderly stroked her cheek.

He never meant for it to wake her.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.

"Darling…" she whispered weakly, her face lighting with a smile of perfect happiness… but then she noticed his reddened eyes, the dark streaks across his cheeks. "What is it? Aren't you – aren't you happy, Matthew?"

"My darling, I'm –" He pressed his lips into a trembling smile and kissed her hand. "You know I am, about this. I – can't believe it, still!" Oh, how happy he was! This chance that had been denied to him, the chance he thought he'd been robbed of… And the fact that he would be with Mary, through all of it – would see his child, this time, as soon as it was born – was incredible to him. It was happiness he could not even comprehend, yet. But…

"Then what –"

"You need to rest," he pressed her softly. "Sleep, now, darling. We'll talk later."

"Matthew…"

"It can wait –"

"Tell me," she whispered.

Matthew released a shuddering breath. Of course he must tell her, just as he'd always expected her to tell him, whatever the awful truth was. He kissed her hand again, and rubbed it gently between his own, moistening his lips before he could speak.

"It's… your Mama, darling… I'm so, so sorry."

* * *

><p>The funeral was on Monday.<p>

Of course, there was a fuss about it. How could there not be? Through it all, Matthew gripped Mary's hand, as they each took support from the other. Catherine stood to Mary's side, clutching her hand tightly to stand up straight, while Mabel held herself tall beside Matthew. They couldn't understand, but instinctively respected the sombre atmosphere, staring down at their gleaming black shoes and pressed dresses. Mabel gripped the back of Matthew's coat, looking up at him every now and again as if to make sure he was alright. She didn't like him to be sad, or Mama, but there didn't seem much she could do beyond hugging them tightly when they let her, though that did seem to cheer them up.

At the graveside, Mary stayed close to her sisters. Branson was there, with Sybil, and for this once Robert had nothing to say about it. In fact, he'd not much to say about anything. He was quiet, withdrawn, which was only as much as anyone expected.

Peering around her, Mabel frowned and eventually tugged on Matthew's hand.

"Papa?" she whispered quietly. Everyone was so quiet… Though the vicar _had_ finished talking, now. Matthew glanced down and, unable to do much else, lowered himself stiffly to crouch beside her.

"What is it, darling?"

"I know you said so, but I don't know _why_ Grandmama isn't here – everyone else is. _Everyone_! I miss her, Papa –"

"I know, I know," he shushed her softly. Brushing a golden curl back under her hat, he took her hand gently between his fingers. How could he possibly explain it to her? A child should not understand such things. "Grandmama isn't here any more," he finally settled on; "but look, everybody else is. And everybody misses her, too, just like you do. I'll tell you what, when we're back at the house, shall we find your favourite picture of Grandmama? And you can tell me everything you remember. Mama might like that. Kit certainly will, because you remember some things that she won't, don't you?"

Mabel nodded. "Suppose, yes. But _when_ can we –"

"Not now, darling. Look, Granny Bel wants you, there…" Rising slowly to his feet, Matthew smiled gratefully at his mother as she took Mabel's hand to show her a bird's nest she'd spotted over in the hedgerow. Catherine was already bouncing excitedly about it at her other side.

"Thank you," Mary murmured gratefully to her husband, for his delicacy and thought.

Matthew kissed her cheek, and linked her hand through his arm. The gathering was starting to disperse, now, and only Robert remained by the side of the grave. After glancing at Mary, gaining her nod of acceptance, they walked the few steps to him.

They didn't need to announce their approach. The Earl turned as they reached him. He couldn't muster a smile. The only sign of his distress was his reddened, hollow eyes.

"Papa…"

"I'm so sorry," Matthew said with utter sincerity.

"So am I, my dear boy. For so many things," Robert sighed heavily, staring down at his wife's grave. It didn't seem real.

But those simple words meant more to the young couple beside him than anything else he could have said. Matthew, though, couldn't let it rest.

"Please, we were both of us in the –"

"No, Matthew," he cut over him. "I was blind, and stubborn." If only it had not taken the death of his dear wife to make him realise it! He understood now. It was so blindingly clear, what a fool he'd been. To believe that anything had been more important than those dearest to him, who had never _meant_ to injure him if they had at all… And particularly, them. His heir, and his eldest daughter, and their two children… Three, by the end of the year. Would he really have thrown that away, for his pride?

Wistfully, he looked back to where Mabel and Catherine were poking about in the hedgerow. Such darling girls. A gentle smile ghosted over his lips. Finally, he looked back to them and said; "I should have realised what mattered, long before now. And now I've – lost my wife. I know that you can't – well, you _shouldn't_ – forgive me for the things I have said, but… Please do not punish me more than I am punishing myself by making me lose you, now, too."

What more could be said than that? Matthew nodded, tightly, the simple gesture passing an understanding between the two men. From this, they could move forwards. They had to.

Beside her husband, Mary wiped away a stray tear, regarding her father carefully.

"You're right. I don't know that we can forgive you," she said quietly. "But – oh, Papa –" At that moment, she felt no more than a small girl again, who missed her mother and could accept no comfort but the sure, strong arms of her father, and she stepped quickly into his embrace. And that was right, absolutely right, whatever had gone before. His eyes narrowing, Matthew reminded himself sternly of what was important. The things that _mattered_… _This_ mattered.

Glancing past them, he caught Mabel's eye when she turned to show something to Isobel. He beckoned her to him, and she tugged Catherine along with her. Crouching again, leaning heavily on his stick, Matthew beckoned them even closer as he whispered.

"Now, don't you think Grandpapa has looked sad today?"

"Think he must miss Grandmama too," Mabel volunteered, while Catherine merely echoed,

"Look so sad…"

Matthew touched their soft cheeks fondly. "I think so, darling. Do you think perhaps you could make him smile? I'm sure he'd like –"

"Oh, yes Papa!"

They'd been longing to, he knew, for a long time before this day. And as Mary stepped tearfully back, they flung themselves into their grandfather's arms, hugging him tightly to try and make him smile.

It worked.

"Oh, Matthew. Do you think we'll be alright?" Mary leaned her head against his shoulder, a weak, sad smile gracing her lips.

Matthew turned slightly towards her, allowing his hand to rest on her belly – still flat, no sign yet of their child, still such a wonder – and kissed her cheek.

"We will be, darling."

It might not feel like it yet; the clouds were still dark and shadowy. There was so much hurt to work through first. But – he was sure of it, that together – they would be alright. Of course they would.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _WE MADE IT! Still a couple more chapters to go... But there's always a silver lining. I very much hope you enjoyed it, and would absolutely love to know your thoughts - reviews would absolutely make my day and will be received with utmost gratitude, smiles and appreciation. Thank you so much for reading! :)_


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: _Happy... Friday! (I forgot my Happy Monday last chapter)_

_Before anything else, I'd like to thank you very very sincerely for your wonderful responses to Chapter 27. I was genuinely terrified about it, I'd been in an enormous stress about it, and I was so incredibly touched by all your comments. You've no idea how encouraging it was! So thank you, so much. :) And enormous thanks to EOlivet for her endless support even while she's on holiday!  
><em>

_Here's a mid-week update that lies between 2x08 and the CS. For reference, because I'm very aware that it's just so much in my head that I know instinctively - Mabel is now about four and a half, and Catherine is two. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight<strong>

_October 1919_

"So you're quite sure everything's alright?" Matthew asked for the fifth time since coming down the stairs, frowning anxiously at Doctor Clarkson. "She's so dreadfully uncomfortable –"

"I know, and she will be," the doctor shrugged, with a kindly smile. He stood to one side in the corridor while Matthew opened the door for him. "I'm afraid it's just to be expected, and Lady Mary must bear with it – but it cannot be long, now. Try not to worry."

"That's what you said over a week ago…" Matthew tried to pass off his concern with a nervous laugh, but it didn't quite work. 'Any day now' had been Clarkson's precise words, but still nothing had happened, and Mary was finding it more difficult by the day. He'd wondered if it was always like this – just another sign of his inexperience in these matters – but even Mary said that this was worse than with either Mabel or Catherine.

Glancing out at where his two daughters were kicking through the crisp, colourful fallen leaves in the garden, Matthew scrubbed a hand through his hair before looking anxiously back to Clarkson. "Is there anything we could do to – I don't know, hurry things along?"

Clarkson smiled down at his feet for a moment. "There are – suggestions, Mr. Crawley, for things like that; though I don't know there's much proof to any of them. But there's no harm, at least, in them –"

"I'm pretty sure Mary will try anything. Do tell me?"

"Right you are," Clarkson raised an eyebrow, rocking a little on his feet with hands clasped behind his back. There was something enormously endearing about the young man's earnestness to do whatever he could for his wife, borne of naivety to all this and the deep-seated love between them that had never been more apparent than through these months of her pregnancy.

Quietly, almost hushed, he outlined some suggestions. "Well, simplest perhaps would be taking regular, and lengthy, walks."

"Yes, well we do that already," Matthew nodded. It was as good for him as for Mary, and they'd tried to still as often as they felt up to it.

"I'm sure – and, while you mention it, how have you been finding things without your stick? Of course you must use it still when you need to –"

"I know, I know." A delighted smiled crossed Matthew's face. It had been a long journey, terribly long; but over the months he'd been able to rely less and less on the stick to aid his walking. Finally, last week, he'd dared to leave it at home entirely when he went out, and had been beyond delighted to get all the way to the big house and back without support. He was finally, finally beginning to feel truly himself again, and it was wonderful. "I seem to be managing very well so far – but I am being careful, you needn't worry."

"That's good to hear. Anyway, another thing purported to work well is castor oil. If it's masked in milk, to make the taste more palatable, it may be worth trying."

"I see. Thank you, I'll tell Mrs. Bird; I'm sure we've some in. And, if not? Is there anything else?"

Clarkson hesitated a moment. "Now – you see, the general point of these things is to – relax the body, to – encourage the baby along."

"Yes, I understand that," Matthew nodded, eager for him to continue.

"Yes. It – may be an old wives' tale, but one of the best ways to achieve this is –" The doctor glanced around, a sudden air of discomfort in his posture as he looked almost apologetically at Matthew. "Well – sexual intimacy."

"I… Oh! Oh." Matthew's cheeks flushed deeply with colour; though he'd grown somewhat accustomed to passing medical reference to his – abilities – this somehow didn't seem quite the same. Swallowing though his mouth was dry, his fingers flexed gently by his sides in a familiar twitch to cover his embarrassment. He couldn't quite meet the doctor's eye. "And I – well, do you think… I mean, we – that is, Mary and I – are quite – well. As you say, I suppose there's no harm in trying?"

His breathless voice and desperately uncomfortable laugh made Clarkson chuckle.

"None at all!" He clapped Matthew's arm, trying to put the younger man at ease. "As I said, though – there really is no need to worry. It will happen – the baby will simply come when it's ready. Lady Mary's in fine health, so you needn't do anything – drastic."

"No! No, of course. We wouldn't – that is – thank you, Doctor. You've been most – helpful –" Matthew wanted nothing more than for this conversation to be over. Distractedly, he waved to Catherine who was toddling across the garden towards them with a… He bent down as she reached them. "What have you got, darling?"

"Bird egg!" she proudly proclaimed, holding it up for him to inspect.

Clarkson quietly excused himself. "I'll be off, then, Mr. Crawley – do call me if anything changes –"

"Yes, I – thank you, so much, goodbye –" Matthew nodded in parting before turning back to his younger daughter. "Well! Where did you find that?"

"There…" Catherine grabbed his hand, and he indulgently followed her to a patch of leaves under a tree. He peered up into the branches.

"I see! I think – yes, there, can you see the nest? That's it. Shall I put it back, so it can hatch properly?"

Mabel bounced over to them. "Its mama might miss it if you don't," she suggested.

"Quite right, darling. There." Gently, Matthew took the egg from Catherine and stretched up, just about able to reach the next to replace it. "I think it was very lucky not to have broken, don't you?"

"Ve'y lucky!" Catherine beamed, pleased with her father's seeming approval of her decision to bring it to him.

"Shall I draw a picture of it to show Miss Ludbrook?" Mabel asked. "Oh! And to Baby?"

"What a good idea!" Matthew smiled, rubbing her back fondly. "In fact, I think you'd better go up to the nursery now. Better not let Mama see your shoes." He raised his eyebrows in mock reproach, and both girls looked down guiltily. The soft, black leather of their shoes were badly scuffed from kicking in the leaves.

"Oh dear," Catherine chewed her finger, rocking on her feet as she stared down.

"Sorry Papa," Mabel pursed her lips and blinked up at him. As much as he tried, Matthew could not even pretend to be cross with them for more than a moment, and any pretence of sternness was lost in his affectionate smile as he touched his daughter's cheek.

"Alright, darling. Now off you both go."

He chuckled fondly to himself as Mabel grabbed Catherine's hand and grinned at him, following slowly after them as they dashed inside. After making sure they'd gone upstairs, he wandered into the sitting room where Mary had settled herself to recline onto the settee. Perching carefully beside her, he linked his fingers with hers, resting their joined hands gently on her belly as he leaned down to kiss her.

These long months of her pregnancy had been an utter wonder to Matthew. Everything, each slightest thing, he'd found delight in. After months of believing that he would never have this opportunity, that it had been stripped from him, to find it a possibility – not only a possibility, but a fact, a promise – was the dearest, sweetest treasure. The prospect of the child had been a beacon of light in the darkness following Cora's death; a hope that the entire family had latched upon, so much so that it had quite overwhelmed Mary. While she'd tried to believe that becoming a mother for the third time could soften the loss of her own mother, she for one found it only made the pain sharper to bear.

Thank God she had Matthew, this time. His support had been unwavering, as she'd always believed it might be, were he only given the chance. Even through the worst of it, the discomfort and the sickness and the cravings, he'd done everything he could for her and found it a delight to do so, for the sheer fact that he _could_. Their only difficulties had come with Mary's temperamental moods; though Matthew had quickly learned how to recognise when she simply needed some space… and had always found pleasure in their reconciliations afterward, in any case.

Somehow, they'd battled through together, finding comfort in the sharing of their troubles and their sorrow, in those first months. And for all the trials, there had been equal joy… Each tentative step towards reconciliation with her father, each improvement in Matthew's efforts to walk, each new development of her pregnancy as she'd begun to show, and the baby had begun to shift, and Matthew had been by her side for all of it. Things which might have been tiresome to her this time, experiences dulled by two previous births, became a fresh delight in their newness to Matthew.

Shifting a little, she tried to ease her comfort. Everything ached, she was hot, tired… and it was becoming more and more difficult for even Matthew to distract her from that, even with his cool hand on her forehead, his other gently massaging to ease her tension.

"I hope you intend to continue such kindness to me once Baby finally greets us…" she murmured contentedly.

"Do you doubt it?" he smiled, his voice a gentle caress. A soft kiss to her lips, then his attention shifted to her belly, his hands stroking warmly over the taut roundness of it, his affection marked with tender kisses. She giggled fondly, combing her fingers through his hair. "My darling girl…" he whispered, lost in quiet wonder.

Mary tapped his nose. "Is that address directed to me, or to Baby?" Matthew twisted his head, resting his cheek against where their child lay as he smiled up at her.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know… We don't seem very good at making boys, do we! So far, at least," she laughed.

Matthew sat up suddenly, sobered. Mary frowned, watching him stare thoughtfully down as he took her hand again and played with each finger in his lap. "What is it?" she asked softly.

"Your father said that to me, once," he smiled almost sadly, and sighed. "A very long time ago. When – your mother –"

"Did he?" She turned her head restlessly against the propped cushions on the settee arm, watching Matthew's fingers entwine with her own. She tried to push away the feeling of sadness settling over her. "What a comfort that child might have been to him now – since –"

"Don't say that, darling," Matthew quieted her with a finger on her lips. There was no use in thinking things like that, not now, not when so many years had passed and so much had changed. "He has his three daughters for comfort, or he would if he allowed it – or do you think that hasn't been enough? Anyway, if – things had turned out that way – well, you might not have married me, and –"

"Matthew!" she cried, brushing his hand away to clutch it tightly. "After all this time, do you really still think that I would be swayed by –"

"I don't think it would matter to you now, of course not!" He smiled and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, a calming gesture to soften his words. "But then? I really don't know. And I don't think that you truthfully do, either, my dear. And that's perfectly alright to own to." As if to finish his point, he leaned down to kiss her softly.

She smiled gently against his lips. "Then… I suppose I must be glad, for how things went!"

"We wouldn't change a moment. Remember?" His finger stroked gently against her cheek. "And – well, even if we had eventually married, we would not have Bel, or Catherine. And I certainly, _certainly_ wouldn't change either of them!"

"No, nor would I!" At once the weight of regret eased from her chest, as she kissed him in apology for making him think of it. Her arms draped around his neck, fingers dipping into his hair and beneath his collar, and… Matthew suddenly remembered what Clarkson had said to him.

He leaned up, slightly breathless. "Darling, do you –" At the last moment, his nerve faltered. He couldn't suggest… Not now… She wouldn't, she hadn't wanted to for weeks and… "think we might go for a walk?"

* * *

><p>As they lay in bed that night, still in very much the same condition as earlier that day, Mary agitatedly threw off the covers, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead. It was intolerable.<p>

"Must you crowd me so, darling?" she muttered, protesting against the heat of Matthew's body beside her. He was already giving her as much room as he could manage, relenting to only his hand playing lightly over her belly than any closer embrace.

"Oh my dear," he sighed, trying to shuffle even further away though really the bed was not so very spacious as to allow it. "I wish there was more I could do, would you – like me to sleep in the dressing room?"

"No! No, you needn't do that." She clasped her hands protectively over his own, as if afraid that he might just go anyway. The Lord only knew he'd have a right to, after he'd heard nothing but complaint from her all evening about this and that and everything. She turned her head and smiled at him, blowing out a gentle breath to ease the press in her belly. "It is my pain, and I must bear it. There's no cause to make you uncomfortable as well. At least you're here."

"There's always that." He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, tenderly. Truthfully, he couldn't say he _was_ comfortable at the moment, not lying awkwardly at the furthest edge of the bed as he resisted every urge to enfold her in his arms. Still, though… "I don't know about you, darling, but at least I'm a damned sight more comfortable now than I was when either Bel or Kit were born!"

"I can only imagine!" Mary smiled, attempting to twist towards him, but soon abandoning the effort. At least, as he had hoped, conversation might distract her a little. "I suppose you were – sitting in a muddy, waterlogged trench, having prised your boots off after a week to change your socks for once! That doesn't sound very much fun."

He chuckled softly. "Almost, darling. Actually, you're near enough spot on for Kit; though when Bel came I was…" Unsure suddenly whether or not to tell her, he trailed off. She didn't need to know how desperate that had been.

She wanted to, however. "You were what?" she encouraged him softly. He so rarely spoke about all that, now. And while she would never want to push him, she knew that he must feel able to express it, if he wanted to – it was such a part of his life, that she still had so little idea about.

"I was – fighting. A bloody bad one, actually," he whispered, moistening his lips. "I know, because I – well, I got the message from Mother the moment I got back." Mary's eyes, watching him, glittered in the moonlight. He took a shuddering breath, rubbing her hands softly between his own. "I remember it was raining – it was when my ear was – nicked, I nearly –" He gasped as Mary's finger traced lightly over the scar (tiny, now) on his earlobe. He swallowed. "Anyway, to hear of Bel when I made it back… Oh, my darling… What about you? I mean – before…"

"Reading one of your letters," she smiled tremulously, her discomfort almost forgotten. "I still have them all, you know."

"Do you? That's an awful lot of letters, my dear…"

"Of course! Don't you?"

"Most of them, certainly!" He smiled and kissed her fingers. "Only, I'm not sure that all of them – well, after I was wounded I don't know that they were all – sent back with my things. But I have most." It seemed so strange to think of, now… like a different world, so far removed from his life now and yet it could never be entirely forgotten. He wouldn't want it to be. It hadn't been so very long ago that _this_ life had seemed like only a dream.

"Oh, darling…" She hadn't wanted to make him think of that, not now. Smiling at the sensation of his lips on her hand, she stroked softly along his bottom lip. "We have been quite lucky, haven't we?"

"Quite?" Matthew exclaimed fondly. "Very, I think! So very lucky, my darling…"

And he was so very, very grateful for all of it. That he was alive, that he was here, that he was healthy and for his children… And all at once it overwhelmed him, and there was nothing he could say, or do, but to kiss his wife and let her know it by that.

"Matthew!" she gasped against his lips, finding her request for distance suddenly disregarded as the warm weight of his body covered her, his hands on her…

"You'll forgive me…" His low voice thrummed against her lips in a warm whisper. As his hand traced from her cheek, to her shoulder, to her… breast, she found any thought of complaint fast disappearing. The uncomfortable heat that had swathed her all even was fast being replaced by a far more… intoxicating sort of heat, a heat that simmered into her very core as his fingers teased in a firm, taunting caress, relentlessly, at her breast.

Of its own volition, her body writhed up against his hand. He murmured a deep hum of contentment, deciding at the last moment to keep Clarkson's words of advice to himself. She just needed to enjoy this… Sucking gently on her lower lip, eliciting a soft groan in response, he allowed his hand to slip from her breast (oh, she protested at that but he would not keep her waiting long), down her waist to her hip, where it lay for a moment… then to her thigh, squeezing in a gentle massage as he sought the hem of her nightdress and slipped up under it, fingers stroking gently at the already wet heat of her. His lips closed over her breast, teeth scraping gently through the silk before sucking with more fervour and his breath was hot, his lips were hot and his fingers eased up, in, then again, thumb circling (gently at first, then rougher and firmer as she bucked in pleasure) over and over her.

Under his devoted and taunting attentions, Mary flamed with arousal, forgetting any other feeling as she allowed every sensation he invoked to flood her perception. She grasped at his hair, his shoulders… He groaned around her breast and she shuddered… Gasped, then moaned, then… cried out, forgetting propriety and everything but the feel of his mouth on her, his hands, his fingers embedded within her; she felt herself convulse around him, he groaned again, the most delicious sort of spasm and she cried out and –

"My God, Mary!"

He'd stopped; it took her a moment to register. Her eyes slowly blinked open to see Matthew, sitting bolt upright over her, his expression more shocked than she'd seen in her life.

And then she felt it.

It was time.

* * *

><p>Matthew found himself amazed – in awe, almost – by the near military precision with which things swung into action. His mother showed no alarm when he appeared at her door in his dressing gown. Clarkson was telephoned, Beth fetched towels, Ellen made Mary as comfortable as possible. In fact, Matthew felt slightly useless.<p>

It was too late to wake the girls. Mary hadn't wanted them to be here, Matthew could've kicked himself for not taking precautions by letting them stay at the Abbey in readiness… but it couldn't be helped now. He left Miss Ludbrook with instructions to take them down to the kitchen if they woke; there was little he believed could not be remedied or comforted by Mrs. Bird's warm milk and biscuits.

He sat beside Mary, clutching her hand tightly as each wave of pain shuddered through her and passed. Hours passed, daylight came, and still they sat with little sign of anything much happening, yet. Matthew hadn't realised things took this long; though everyone assured him it was quite usual. And still he felt so _useless_. He held her hand, mopped her brow, wished he could shoulder the pain when it came.

Morning came fully. Matthew realised that he hadn't dressed, still. Mary waved him away, insisting she'd be perfectly alright if he left for ten minutes to wash and dress, and so he did. He felt better for it, and only wished Mary could do the same (though what point would there be?). Mabel and Catherine had woken now anyway; though he still indulged them with breakfast in the kitchen before sending for the car. Miss Ludbrook readied them, and herself to take them.

It was nearly lunchtime when Clarkson finally gave his notice, and Isobel suggested that Matthew wait outside or downstairs.

"What?" he simply stared at them. How could he leave, now? Just when she was about to go through the worst?

"Mrs. Crawley is right," Clarkson glanced at Matthew as he readied some things. Matthew stared at them, recoiling slightly, clutching Mary's hands tighter. "This part is not – pleasant, and there really should be as few people as possible."

Not _pleasant?_ "That's all more reason I'd like to be here –" he protested.

"Matthew," his mother tried again. "It's not – usual, for the father to be present; it's not very – proper." The birth chamber was no place for any man that was not a doctor. "Mary will be perfectly alright."

"For heaven's sake!" Mary pushed herself up higher, glaring at them all. "What in our entire marriage has been _usual_? Who do you think will care?"

"Lady Mary, I –"

"Oh, pipe down," she hissed at the doctor, who blustered at her expression. "I reckon Matthew has been absent for more of the time since we married than he's been present, he didn't see either of his daughters until they were months old at least and then we thought we'd never – he'll damn well not miss _this_!"

Matthew swallowed and sat back down beside her.

"Of course I won't, my darling." His quiet voice soothed her, while his fierce look back at his mother and Clarkson allowed for no argument. They were too shocked to attempt it, in any case.

No, he would not miss this. And he was unutterably glad for holding firm, for Mary's determination, as her screams rent the air, again and then again, her respite getting briefer and briefer as she struggled to bring their baby into the world.

He couldn't tell whether he was clutching her hand tighter than she clutched his. If only there were more he could do! But there was nothing, nothing beyond holding her hand, pressing cool flannels to her forehead, whispering reassurances to her that did as much to calm himself as her.

All concept of time passing disappeared. Where they had waited for hours, time dragging painfully slow, the seconds now raced on in a blur. The room and his entire perception seemed to fill with screams and sweat and tears and – blood, God, he hadn't expected so much and then – then as quickly as it all had started, there was a rush of silence.

Mary collapsed back against the pillows, eyes closed, hair damp against her face and neck. Her chest heaved in shuddering breaths, and her hand now trembled limply in Matthew's. He felt almost sick with worry, with love, with desperation, as he stroked back her hair and kissed her flushed, damp cheeks, forgetting everything else as pride for his darling wife burst in his chest. She'd been through this three times, now, he realised… and twice without him. How had she managed? What a darling she was, how strong she must be! If he'd ever thought her to be strong before (and he did, so very strong), it was nothing to what he saw of her now.

So strong, but now she looked so weak, and spent…

"Darling? My darling, how do you feel? Can you hear me?" he whispered desperately, rubbing her hand firmly.

"Of course I can hear you, dear," she murmured through barely parted lips without opening her eyes; though her head shifted a fraction toward him. He smiled.

"Good. Good, well – I think they're just – actually, I don't know –" He turned to see where his child had been taken. And at that moment, as if in answer, the most beautiful sound pierced the air.

It was funny, Matthew thought to himself in that moment. A scream had always been such a terrifying sound to him. A sound that cried of pain, of fear, of death – he'd heard it on the lips of dying soldiers, on his own in the rush of pain and battle, on Mary's through her labour – and yet, when he heard their baby scream for the first time… it was a sound of such joy and hope and _life_ – a signal of a promise he'd thought could never be given – that tears sprang unchecked to his eyes, and he wept while Mary tenderly brushed them from his cheeks.

Only minutes later, and they were at last left alone.

"I don't think I've ever seen something so small," Matthew whispered in wonder, settled on the bed with Mary tucked under his arm, his free hand tracing reverently over the tiny, soft cheek of their sleeping child.

"Bel and Kit were smaller," Mary smiled adoringly. "But they weren't so late."

"I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, darling."

The baby's tiny fingers flexed and curled around Matthew's, whose delighted chuckle made Mary's heart burst with contentment. This must be what it was like, she considered, to be quite perfectly happy. Or – well, as near to perfectly happy as she ever could be.

She nestled her head against her husband's shoulder, and sighed gently. "I wish – Mama –" But then her words disappeared into a quiet sob.

Matthew only pulled her (them) closer into his arms, kissing the top of her head.

"I know, my darling… I know."

Never had Mary missed her mother more than at this moment. For she'd always – _been_ here – for Mabel, almost immediately, and after only an hour or so with Kit and now – she never would be. Mary missed her reassurance, her comfort, the comfort that a daughter can only take from her mother, especially at such a time. If only they hadn't wasted those last few months with squabbles and silence! How bitterly she regretted it now.

If she were to have one consolation, though… it was to have Matthew. To feel his warm, strong arms around her and protecting her, and their baby. They were so very, very lucky.

"I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his neck.

"So am I!" he chuckled softly. For a moment, a contented silence settled. Then, "You know, your Mama would be so very proud of you, darling."

"Do you think? I hope so!" She sat up a little to smile weakly at him. "And…" her gaze turned down to the baby in her arms. "At least we know she'd have approved of the name."

"Mm." Matthew couldn't stop gazing, couldn't stop touching the wondrous, soft, pink new skin of his baby. He'd never been so happy in his life, never felt _such_ a bond to such a tiny thing. "Mary, do you think – I might –"

He didn't need to ask twice (or even once, fully) before Mary eased the child into his arms, a radiant smile on her face. Matthew took his charge with reverence, with care, cradling the tiny, swathed baby so delicately yet so securely in his arms. He hardly dared to breathe.

"Darling, are you happy?" Mary watched them, in utter adoration.

"Perfectly… my darling girl."

As he sat, his baby (less than an hour old, still) in his arms and his wife nestled against his shoulder, Matthew felt… complete. Perfectly complete, and perfectly happy.

* * *

><p>He decided to walk up to the Abbey, later that day. After spending all night and most of the day closeted in the bedroom, now stifling and smelling of sweat and medicine, he fancied the fresh air. He'd left Mary and the baby, washed and changed and settled, both asleep amid fresh sheets and blankets. All the way, he'd imagined the girls' faces as he told them – he'd asked Isobel to hold off calling, that he might witness their reaction himself.<p>

Carson was surprised to see him, when he opened the door.

"Mr. Crawley? Is everything…"

"Everything's perfectly alright, Carson," Matthew beamed, putting him instantly at ease. "We're – _all_ – very, very well."

"Well, then, might I offer my congratulations to yourself and Lady Mary?" the kindly butler smiled, with enormous warmth in his deep expression. "Lord Grantham is in the library, I believe – with the Misses Mabel, and Catherine."

"Thank you, Carson, and – thank you."

Matthew went so far as to shake his hand, clasping it warmly before going through.

Mabel and Catherine were rather occupied on the floor when Matthew came in. Catherine lay sprawled in front of a book, poking her fingers at the words and tracing over the pictures though she couldn't understand much of it. Mabel had crawled under a table with Isis, the dog's wagging tail the only clue to their whereabouts as Mabel set to make it a den. At the sound of the door, though, and Grandpapa's exclamation of, "Matthew! We weren't expecting you," she scrambled out.

"Papa! Grandpapa said the telephone would tell - but you here…"

"Yes, darling, I'm here," Matthew laughed, swinging her up into his arms and around in the air once before settling her onto the settee. He turned to see Catherine tugging at his leg.

"Papa swing?" she asked.

"Well, alright," he chuckled and up she went too, and around, squealing happily in delight before landing with a little thump on the settee beside Mabel. "You'll forgive me not having telephoned – I rather wanted to tell you myself." He glanced back at Robert, his tone cooling only a fraction, now.

The Earl nodded. "Of course. Can I – assume from your demeanour that you've happy news to report?"

"Yes," Matthew nodded, unable to repress his grin. "Yes." He crouched beside the settee, and took each of his daughters' hands in his own. "I thought, my darlings, that you'd like to know that you've – a little brother!"

"Wha's brother?" Catherine peered at her father.

"Means it's a boy, Kit," Mabel elbowed her (not too harshly). "Can he play?" she asked eagerly.

Matthew laughed at their delight. "No, he – he can't play, darling, not just yet. He's rather too little for that, for a while yet."

"Oh yes. I remember – Kit was too –"

"Yes, darling. Do you remember the name we decided on? If you were to have a brother?"

"Umm..." Mabel's expression pinched in concentration, as Catherine watched her, waiting for an answer. "Oh! Bobby!"

"That's it, Bel. It's short for Robert, like Grandpapa." It was always the name Cora had championed, should they ever have had a boy. Of course that was his name, now.

He finally turned at the quiet, but audible gasp from the Earl. Slowly, Matthew stood up and turned to face him, as Mabel chattered excitedly to Catherine about the fun they would have with their baby brother.

"A son?" Robert whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Yes," Matthew answered simply, before his expression broke into a brilliant smile.

It took only a moment's hesitation, a moment's remembrance of the distant conflict, that made Robert unsure before he rushed forward, taking Matthew's hand then, without really thinking about it, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Oh, my dear boy. My very… very, dear boy. Congratulations."

Matthew stiffened for the briefest moment, more in surprise than resistance, before he welcomed the embrace of his father-in-law.

"Thank you," he whispered.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _There we are! They deserved some happiness, I thought. They've earned it. It was always my plan - always, long before I'd thought to do the AU series 2 - to ultimately end this fic with them having a son after the war. I've still got the CS to write, and then an epilogue, and then... that'll be it!_

_Thanks so much for reading. I very much hope you enjoyed it, and of course I'm always thrilled to know what you thought - so please let me know in a review, and I shall appreciate it enormously! Thank you!_


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: _HAPPY SPOILER PICS DAY! Oh, I'm so happy. My darlings are getting married. They're ACTUALLY GETTING MARRIED. Aaaaahhh!_

_*cough* Anyway! Here, at last, is the Christmas Special chapter of ATiL._ _I'm terribly sorry this update has been longer than usual, but I've had a stonking week at work. I know, I know - it might not seem like it, having popped out several one-shots in the meantime - but they were far less mentally taxing to write than a chatper of ATiL, and I just couldn't dedicate the time to it last week. My sincere apologies. In the meantime, thank you once more for your kind reviews, and thank you to everyone who's alerting or reading this fic. IT IS MY BABY. And this is the penultimate chapter. :( Enormous thanks as ever to my stellar beta EOlivet for helping me get my head around this!_

_OH! And thank you, so very much, to everyone who nominated or voted for ATiL in the Highclere Awards - I'm absolutely thrilled, and very, very touched - thank you!  
><em>

_I very much hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine<strong>

On the cold December morning of Christmas Eve, Matthew awoke with a gentle smile on his face. There was a pleasant contrast between the cold air on his chest, and the warmth of Mary's cheek nestled against his shoulder, her arm slung over his waist.

Tucking his arm a little tighter around her, he kissed the top of her head, and shivered a little. It _was _cold. Experimentally, he shifted his hand under the blankets to his thigh, squeezed it quite hard, and tried to wriggle his toes.

"Mary," he whispered quietly.

"Mm?" Sleepily, she wriggled against him and shifted up, greeting him with a soft kiss. She must have felt his hand slip down to his legs, for she quietly asked, "Is it your back again? Shall I –"

"Please, darling."

Pressing an obliging kiss to his lips, Mary slowly sat up while Matthew eased over onto his front. It had become a familiar routine to them over the last weeks. When Matthew had begun to find that, on particularly cold mornings, he couldn't feel much in his legs again, Clarkson had advised that it was likely only the bruising around his spine flaring up from it. It was a relief; the first time it had happened Matthew had panicked rather, but now he found the numbness dissipated quite easily with a little attention from Mary.

She knelt behind him, settling her knees comfortably either side of his thighs, and reached for the small bottle of scented oil on the bedside cabinet (sliding her hand up his back followed by a trail of soft kisses as she did so). "Thank you," he mumbled fondly, voice muffled by his arms.

"It's quite alright," she murmured, her hands already pressing warmly in a familiar pattern over the small of his back, still scarred and darkened though it was now over a year since he'd been wounded. A gentle smile broke over her lips as he breathed in a soft hum of contentment, wondering if he didn't rather put it on so that he could enjoy this pleasure.

With gentle pressure, she massaged him (and a little lower that strictly necessary, more for her own benefit than his, admittedly), enjoying the sensation of his skin, slick from the drops of oil on her palms, warming gradually under her touch. So, evidently, was he.

Mary chuckled softly, low in her throat as she felt Matthew flex his legs under her, testing the feeling as it slowly returned. "Is that better?" she smiled, leaning forwards to curl over him and nibble affectionately the back of his shoulders, and all the way down his spine.

"Much, darling… Thank you," he sighed deeply, and she could almost hear his smile, if that were possible. "Now, then…"

Mary felt his body tense for movement in the instant before he shifted, biting back a shriek of surprise as Matthew somehow flipped himself up and over her, so that she found herself without warning on _her_ front now, with her husband's hands and lips already tracing soft patterns over her back. "Your turn," he whispered hotly against her ear, before he worked deliberately down every delicate ridge of her spine, to the very small of her back, his lips pressing warmly through the thin silk of her nightgown. She shivered in pleasure as he shifted lower, kissing down the backs of her thighs, until he reached the hem and began to slip it up, and up, retracing the path of his kisses with his tongue, this time against her skin.

When he'd reached her hips, at the gentle encouragement of his hand she eased back a little onto her knees, raising herself just enough for his hands to slip around to her front as he brought her flush against him… tracing fire over her skin as her nightgown was deftly slipped entirely off, thrown aside, and all she needed was his hands, his mouth, _him…_ Toes curling, she writhed back and up against him, her hands fisting into the sheets as he made love to her, with that glorious balance of visceral passion and tenderness that overwhelmed her without fail. She lost herself entirely to him, gasping as he seemed to touch every part of her at once with every part of him and she squeezed her eyes closed, biting her lip as a raw cry rose in her throat just before she felt him stiffen and tremble behind her, within her, his arms wrapping tightly around her as they fell together and lay… his sweat-dampened arm over her waist, his lips against her neck, and she rolled over and curled against him, nestling her head between his neck and shoulder.

"You seem to have recovered, darling," she chuckled against his chest.

"I've warmed up a little, you see," he smiled as he pressed kisses into her hair.

"I see!"

"And I think I have you to thank for it…" His low murmur trailed off as her lips claimed his once more.

They could have laid in such a manner for hours, or all day, but as it happened they had only minutes before they were disturbed by a quiet, insistent knock at the bedroom door. Groaning quietly in frustration, Matthew sat up against the pillows, making sure he was quite adequately covered before softly granting admittance while Mary tucked herself down to his other side.

Molesley's head appeared around the door, his blush far less fierce now than it had been in earlier days when he'd been forced to intrude on them like this.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Crawley –"

"It's quite alright, Molesley, I was getting up in a while anyway. What is it?" He flinched, smiling, as Mary pinched his leg.

"Lord Grantham on the telephone for you, Sir."

"Oh. Right, I'll be just a moment. Thank you," he nodded.

Molesley bowed his head and ducked back out of the door, closing it softly. Reluctantly, Matthew left his bed and his wife, stamping his feet a little to make sure all feeling had fully returned to his legs while he wrapped his dressing gown around himself.

After he'd gone, Mary rang for Ellen and dressed. Matthew was still nowhere to be seen, so she wandered to the nursery. Mabel had been awake for a while already, and was dutifully writing out a Christmas card as dictated to her by Miss Ludbrook. She smiled, fondly, then turned her attention to Catherine who was scrawling a coloured crayon over a colouring book. The little girl showed it off proudly, pronouncing it as a Christmas present for Bobby, tomorrow.

"I'm sure he'll adore it!" Mary laughed, kissing her younger daughter's cheek fondly before going over to the crib.

There was their son, lying blissfully asleep and perfect, his delicate wisps of dark hair curling and clinging damply to his forehead, thumb firmly in his mouth. For an age, it seemed, she watched him, and when Catherine clambered onto her lap they peered together into the crib, smiling down at the tiny child below them. Mary hoped he would be like Matthew, so very much. And she was sure he would be, for Matthew adored him so utterly (as he did their two girls, as he always had) that Mary was sure his goodness and kindness would somehow rub off onto them.

Smiling, she placed Catherine gently down again, passed her sincere approval over Mabel's careful writing, and padded downstairs. The sitting room was modestly decorated for Christmas, which Matthew had enormously enjoyed helping with this year, as he hadn't been able to the year before. Doing it with the children to help, of course, had been a delight.

"Hello Isobel," she greeted her mother-in-law. "Is Matthew still on the telephone?"

"Good morning, dear." Isobel poured Mary a cup of tea, once she'd sat down. "As far as I – oh, there he is."

Matthew appeared in the doorway, still clad only in his dressing gown. Mary smirked a little, while Isobel only raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you intend on getting dressed at all today, Matthew?"

"Good morning to you as well, Mother!" he frowned affectionately.

"What did Papa want?" Mary prompted gently. Matthew's expression darkened, to her surprise; even more so when he asked Isobel to leave them for a moment. She might have pretended towards offence, but something in his manner did not allow for it, and so she quietly excused herself with plans to attend the hospital in any case.

Matthew settled carefully into a chair, taking Mary's hands in his own and staring at them thoughtfully.

"He was telephoning about Bates' trial," he said quietly, after a little while. Mary stiffened, searching his face for any hint as to what he meant.

"Why was he telephoning you about that? You weren't planning on going, were you – it's in London!" Something about his expression was definitely worrying her. So was his lengthy pause before answering.

"You – know that Mrs. Hughes has been called to testify? And he suspects Miss O'Brien, too?"

"He mentioned it, I think… Matthew, what is it?"

Matthew frowned at her hands, and rubbed them gently, pursing his lips.

"So has Richard Carlisle." As he'd imagined, Mary's lips parted into a silent gasp of surprise and he let the news sink in for a while before he carried on. "You see, the – story, it turns out, has become pretty central to the case. Bates was trying to protect Anna's part in it, so – well, Mrs. Bates obviously negotiated with Carlisle over the sale of the story, and we reckon that's why he's been called."

"Oh." She rubbed her lips anxiously together, and couldn't quite think of what else to say. It had been so long… so long, since any of that had claimed a moment of her sleep, or her concern!

"The story itself shouldn't be mentioned in any sort of detail – there's no need for it, darling, and certainly not your name."

"The details are commonly known anyway, Matthew!" she cried. "What does that matter!"

"I mean –" Matthew sighed, pressing his lips to her hands, "that there won't be any fuss about you. Though, you will need to sign a document confirming Anna's exact role in the matter, as that part _is_ pertinent, but – you can do that here, and anyway we needn't worry about that after Christmas, darling. Then you needn't think of it again. Though… I do think that I will go, just to be there."

Mary nodded slowly as he spoke, listening carefully and calmly.

"Then so will I," she declared, as soon as he had finished.

Matthew argued, immediately and earnestly. There was no need for her to be there, it wouldn't do any good, she would only be upset by it… But she was determined; she had a right to know what was being discussed about her! Well, that was exactly why Matthew was of a mind to go – to hear the worst that there might be, so that he knew all of it, but there was no need for Mary to subject herself –

In the end, it was Bobby who swung the argument.

"He's too young to travel to London," Matthew said firmly. He hadn't much experience of babies at this age (none, in fact, much as it pained him) but he did know that much.

"Of course he is –"

"And you won't leave him," he implored his wife. "We can't all go, Mary, and – well, I know Mother's quite capable but I'd rather you were here."

Mary glared obstinately at him, feeling her resistance crumble at his argument. Her mothering instincts, now, were far greater than her own of self-preservation; so Matthew's appeal for the sake of their children, not to leave them, was utterly impossible to fight against.

"Alright," she snapped uncharitably, her hands tensing (still in his, they'd never let go). She was angry at him; for his manipulation, and his inherent _rightness_ (of course he was right, he usually was), and all of it only because he wanted to protect her (all of them). She frowned at him, though her anger (or pretence of it) was fading quickly at the earnestness of his expression, and the fact that he was… still in his dressing gown, and that alone.

As if he sensed this waver in her resolve, Matthew leaned quickly forwards and pressed a warm kiss to her lips.

"Thank you," he whispered. Oh, he loved her, and that was all – surely she had to see that! Of course he understood her desire to be there, but… they had suffered enough from that story, more than enough, and he would not let it hurt her again. Protectiveness burnt fiercely in his breast, no matter her pride. Whatever she pretended, he knew that its mark would always be on her; and he didn't want that mark to be made any deeper than it need be.

He smiled, and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles reassuringly. Still, she glared at him. "Anyway," he tried to placate her. "Let's not think of that now. It's Christmas Eve, darling, and – we needn't put our minds to any of that for a week at least."

"Hmm."

Now she wouldn't meet his eye, her hands were tugging out of his grasp and… to the belt of his dressing gown, fierce concentration in her gaze as it flew open under her quick fingers.

"Mary!" he gasped, grabbing at her wrists, but her mouth was on his neck, her hands already slipped under and on his skin… "What are you doing?" he choked out. It was the middle of the morning, they were in the sitting room!

Her lips barely broke from his skin for a moment.

"Taking our minds off it, darling…" she murmured, pushing him back and smiling in satisfaction as she felt him inevitably yield to her. This, at least… was one argument she could always better him at.

* * *

><p>After an evening spent cosseted in warmth and comfort in front of the fire, and the small Christmas tree, the Crawley family retired to bed. Matthew sat in the nursery, and Mary with him, while the children all fell asleep to the soft, low lilt of their Papa's voice reciting <em>The Night Before Christmas<em> to them all in the shadowy lamplight.

The next morning was a joyful one. This was the first Christmas for Matthew, in many years now, when absolutely everything was right. There was no shadow of a threat hanging over him, nothing that could possibly take him from them now; and this year he could _enjoy_ it properly with them. Catherine squealed in delight as he picked her up and spun her around the sitting room, simply because he could do so. She'd been very spoilt with a beautiful rocking horse, whose lustrous mane fell over the gleaming dappled grey wood of its neck, whose dark, beaded eyes glittered in contrast to the soft, dulled leather of the fixed saddle.

Mabel watched from where she sat curled with her legs up against Mary's side, her lavish picture book in her lap. Her lips pursed and a little frown crossed her face, and Mary couldn't help but laugh at it.

"Bel, darling, why do you look so sour? It's Christmas day!" She eased Bobby into the crook of her other arm, where he lay sleeping with his plush new teddy bear (almost as big as he was) clutched tightly to his chest, so that she could put her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

"S'pretty," Mabel mumbled quietly, staring at Catherine's rocking horse. Catherine was rocking on it with glee, wobbling occasionally despite Matthew's protective hand on her back.

Mary smiled. "It is, isn't it?" Pressing a kiss to the top of Mabel's head, she whispered, "I imagine you're thrilled that Kit's so lucky to have such a lovely horse, aren't you? Perhaps she'll be very kind and let you ride, too."

"Don't want to, Mama." Her bottom lip pouted out, and Mary had to bite back a laugh at the little girl's poorly concealed jealousy.

"Very well then, I'm sure Kit will be quite happy to have it all to herself! Now why don't you show Granny Bel your picture book, and your new coat – shall you wear it to the Abbey, later?"

Mabel supposed this was a decent idea, and wriggled off the settee to go to Isobel, who duly fawned over her book and coat, and patted her soft, golden hair just as she liked.

And she did wear her new coat, later, when they all went up to the Abbey soon after midday.

"Merry Christmas," Robert smiled, standing to greet them on the driveway. "Now, where's my boy?" The Earl beamed in delight as Matthew warmly passed the season's greetings, along with his son into Robert's waiting arms.

"There… Bobby boy's been very spoiled this morning, and I'm afraid he's not up to much else than sleeping for the moment…" he murmured fondly, grinning at the soft cheeks and puckered lips of the youngest Crawley (and heir) that just peeked over the woollen shawl around him.

"I'd expect nothing else!" Robert laughed, still unable to believe that he had a young grandson, now. "My dear chap, you don't know how thrilled I have been simply to be able to buy gifts suited to a little boy. Even if he shan't be able to enjoy them for a while!"

Warming with affection at the exchange, Mary went to greet her sister, as the girls bundled over to their great-grandmother who was, as always, exceptionally pleased to see them looking so well and grown.

"Dear Papa," she said quietly. "How has he been?"

"Alright, generally, but better now that you're here," Edith answered honestly. "I don't really know how we've managed."

"_You've_ managed incredibly well," Mary cocked her head at her sister, who blushed a little. Everything had been different since they'd lost Cora, and Mary was really (if a little grudgingly) proud of her sister for taking on the role of organising the Christmas festivities so well. "Who'd have thought; you playing the Countess before me!"

"Don't, Mary –"

"Oh, it's only true, darling," Mary smiled, touching Edith's arm lightly. "You shall have to tell me your secret, in the far-off day when I'll need your expertise."

Her tone was light, but her point serious. How was she to be a Countess, how was she to learn without her mother to teach her the role? Her absence, which they had slowly grown used to (though the family still felt terribly incomplete, somehow, without Sybil now as well) had been thrown into sharp relief by the festive preparations, and it was hard to be quite as excited and happy as they should have been otherwise.

Luncheon passed pleasantly and quickly, and the library was soon covered in swathes of wrapping paper to the delight of the children. Bobby had found a place now in Violet's embrace, who frowned at Isobel's fussing and cooed over the little boy, shaking her stick at Isis when the excitable dog came too near.

Mabel had just about forgiven Catherine for receiving a far more beautiful present than she had been granted that year, when Matthew suddenly scooped her up into her arms, prompting a very loud (very unladylike, Violet frowned) squeal.

"Papa!" she laughed, twisting to hug her arms around his neck.

Matthew grinned, and exchanged a knowing look with Mary over their daughter's shoulder, who glanced to her father before nodding and standing up.

"Now, darling," he whispered conspiratorially against her hair. "Don't you think your lovely new coat is going to waste cooped up in here by the fire? Shall we go outside for a little while?"

Mabel leaned back in his embrace and frowned at him, plucking at her lip.

"Yes, I suppose so," she nodded. If Papa thought it was a good idea to go outside, she could see no reason why not. "Can Isis come?"

When Matthew agreed to that, she decided that it was, in fact, a splendid idea. So did everyone else, it seemed, and so they all trooped to the front door. Matthew held Mabel closely against his chest, quite firmly though she was content anyway to curl into him and not turn around.

The biting wind blew against them as they stepped out, and Mary came to stand beside them, and tapped Mabel lightly on the back.

"Bel, darling, we've a little surprise for you," she smiled.

Mabel stared at her for a moment, then at her Papa, who was grinning just as much. It seemed strange to get _quite_ so excited about going outside… Matthew put her down, then, and took her hand as she turned around.

And in front of her was a dapple-grey pony (a real one!), standing calmly beside the old man she vaguely recognised that her Mama called Lynch who held the pony's reins. Her bright blue eyes grew wide, and she whirled round to the smiling faces of her parents.

"What do you think, darling?" Matthew asked quietly, crouching beside her.

Mary did the same. "Is she quite as pretty as Kit's rocking horse, do you think?" she grinned.

Mabel's eyes grew impossibly wider, her lips parting into an expression of pure delight as she realised what her parents were implying.

"Quite as pretty, or more!" she cried, bouncing up and down a little. "Oh – is she – really –"

"Really yours, Bel, though she will have to live here at the Abbey," Mary smiled.

"And Mama can take you out and teach you to ride her properly," Matthew said softly, "for she's a far better rider than I am, so you'll do very well indeed."

Mary laughed at that, and even more when Mabel threw herself at them both in delight, before bouncing off to inspect her very beautiful pony, that was her very own – though of course she dragged Kit along with her, who was enormously in awe. Isis bounced happily around them, all under the watchful, adoring eyes of the adults, while Bobby began to wriggle awake in his Grandpapa's arms as if aware, somehow, of the excitement.

* * *

><p>It was as lovely a Christmas as it could be, with those missing, and the spirit continued over to the new year as they welcomed in the new decade together, celebrated by the shoot on New Year's Day. The atmosphere was perhaps more sombre than it might have been, as they reflected on all the turmoil of the preceding years. They had a great deal to be thankful for, besides all the upset… a very great deal. Still, though, the dawn of 1920 was welcomed with smiles and good cheer as the sign of a fresh start, for all of them. Put to bed were the troubles of the years past; now they all made an unspoken pact, as the clock chimed, to concentrate only on the future and what promises lay ahead. It was all that they really could do.<p>

The next morning, Matthew's mood seemed similarly reflective as he stepped out to the front of the Abbey, to join Mary amid the bustle of activity preparing for the shoot.

"Is everything alright?" Mary turned to him, taking his arm familiarly.

He glanced at her, and licked his lips. "Oh, yes. I just had a telephone call through to sort out arrangements for the trial, that's all. But you needn't think of that now, darling."

"Oh," she frowned, rubbing his arm. She quite understood that, but she knew him too well to accept that as the sole reason for his discontent. "What else is it?"

"Only a very slight thing," he sighed, tucking his arm around her only to release her a moment later as a weighty shotgun was doled out to him. Mary watched him take it, the familiarity with which he handled it and readied it, feeling an old shiver of discomfort at the very idea of Matthew with a weapon. Luckily, then, he distracted her again. "I found out an old associate passed away just after Christmas, you see, Reggie Swire. I figured I might go to his funeral while I'm up there – I'd like to, given the chance."

"Of course you would," Mary murmured sympathetically. "Is – _was_, he the old friend who's daughter's name you rather fancied for Kit?" Her attempt to raise his spirits, with a cock of her eyebrow, fell rather flat at Matthew's response.

"Lavinia, you mean? Yes, I'm… sorry to say he lost her to the 'flu earlier in the year. About the same time that – well, that it was going around. Seems he never quite recovered from it."

"God, how tragic, I'm so sorry…"

"Mm, well. These – things happen, best not to dwell on them. Look, darling, they're ready –" Matthew muttered to himself, guiding Mary to walk with the rest of the gathering down towards the first drive through the cool mist. The very thought of a parent losing their child was all wrong, utterly wrong, and it made him shiver to even think of… A daughter, as well…

For a very short while he attempted to clear his mind by taking out his dismal thoughts on the forsaken pheasants, but both he and Mary knew that it was rather silly to do so.

"You still won't take a loader," she laughed gently at him.

"I'm still not very good at it," he smirked back, cheering a little at her teasing. "I'm not trying to be, to tell the honest truth," he shrugged. "I've had quite enough of – this sort of thing, for a lifetime, I think!"

"Oh, darling. At least there's only me to witness your incompetence!" Gently, she tried to steer his mind from those thoughts – he needn't think at all of the war anymore, not now, not in 1920! To do so seemed almost absurd.

He fired another shot, ricocheting into the sky, squinting up for a few moments before turning to grin at her.

"I don't mind that, darling. Just so long as you promise faithfully to lie when they ask you how I did!"

Mary grinned back fondly, before her lips twitched into a smirk.

"It's rather a good job you have other skills that you're quite competent at, isn't it?"

Matthew's fingers froze with the bullets in them, his eyes darkening as he stared at her with parted lips. She stood, hands innocently in her pockets, unwavering. He cocked his head.

"Skills that, similarly, only you are witness to?" he muttered breathlessly, his eyes fixed on hers as he readied the shotgun again.

It was as he glanced back up to the sky, bracing the gun against his shoulder, pressing his cheek to the cold metal to line his sight properly as he took a shot, rocking back, that she decided to answer him.

"Oh, yes." Her whisper was right in his ear, and he almost stumbled. "I count myself rather lucky to do a little more than witness them, you know…" She took the edge of his ear between her teeth, sucking gently as she felt him shiver.

"Mary!" he hissed, a pooling sense of excitement flaring in him.

"Come on, darling. There's no need to purposefully fail at something you're incompetent at anyway when you could be… proving your competence in other areas, rather more enjoyably…"

Matthew swallowed heavily, his eyes still rooted to the sky as smoke curled above them.

"Huh… I think I got that one," he barely managed to whisper before he turned around to see Mary striding rather determinedly towards a more enclosed copse… and followed her at a brisk pace, slinging his gun leisurely over his arm.

* * *

><p>It was a few days later that Mary ventured to the Abbey alone, with only Bobby for company in his moses basket as Matthew was at the tailors.<p>

Carson let her in, glad to see her as always (and even more so now, it seemed, after her visits had once become so rare), and showed her into the library where her father sat on the settee with a book. He looked up as soon as she entered.

"Mary, dear, what a lovely surprise," he said as he stood to greet her. She returned a wan smile, kissed his cheek and sat down, lifting Bobby gently out of the basket to settle onto her lap. He kicked his legs a little and grasped at the edge of the blanket tucked around him, tugging it into his mouth as he blinked across as Robert with wide blue eyes. "Hello, my boy," the Earl smiled and tickled at his chin before sitting down again. It made him a little sad, how strange this felt. How unusual it seemed.

"I wanted to come and see you before you leave tomorrow," Mary said, smiling as Bobby played with her hand, now, rocking forwards a little as she moved her hand away and back again. "I do hope it goes – as well as it can."

"I appreciate that," he said kindly. "And that Matthew is coming, too. I know he doesn't have to."

"He's going for my sake," Mary shrugged. That was it, that was the only reason, and she wouldn't have her father thinking otherwise.

"I know he is," Robert replied quietly. So much hung between them, so much still unsaid. So much hurt that hadn't yet been addressed, after all this time.

Mary shifted a little on the settee, and gazed down at her son, idly stroking her hand over the top of his head. She couldn't help but smile. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a whisper.

"I'm sorry you'll have to hear it all again."

Robert's expression twisted in distress, regret aching in his chest for how he'd reacted, then. But he hardly knew how to express that, he was not accustomed to such things.

Instead he settled for, "They shan't go into detail, Mary, it won't be necessary to –"

"But you'll think of it, won't you," she cut over him, still not meeting his eye. She took a deep breath. "And I know how terribly disappointed in me you are, and I am sorry, Papa, for – all of it –"

"Please, my dear, please – don't," he begged her. Her apology burnt through him, so sharply he couldn't bear to listen to it. It was not only for the indiscretion, he knew, but the spiralled ramifications that none of them had been able to imagine, that had nearly rocked their family apart. He saw Mary's eyes press closed, stubbornly blinking back tears as he carried on. "If I could take back – oh, Mary. You weren't the first Crawley to make a mistake, and – you certainly weren't the last," he sighed bitterly.

Her eyes flickered open again, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed quietly. Oblivious to it all, her son continued to play in her lap, bringing the gentlest of smiles to her face.

It had hardly been an apology, but it was as much as she supposed she expected, and it meant a great deal to her that he'd said it. He'd admitted his own part in their dispute, their alienation, the weakening of her mother and – oh, no-one would ever ascribe blame to her death but they all felt it, in some small way.

She wondered if, on some level, she meant her next words as a test. She wasn't sure, or whether she just wanted him to know anyway.

"I had a letter from Sybil yesterday," she started. Robert nodded, and clasped his hand.

"That's… wonderful to hear, my dear. How is she?"

Mary smiled, noticing his complete dismissal of Sybil's husband from the question.

"Sybil's pregnant, Papa."

A whole host of emotions played over his face, until he had to simply stand up, pacing away from her towards the window.

"Is she," he eventually managed, still not looking at her. "I see."

"You must be happy for her," Mary said quietly. "It will be your grandchild, Papa – just like Bel, just like Kit, just like Bobby. I know that you love them, and – if you didn't, I would never come here again." Her words, like ice, cut into him until he almost shivered. "Please," she implored him, "don't make Sybil feel that way. Not now." Not after all that's happened, all they'd lost, she didn't say. She didn't need to.

"I'm… sure I won't be able to help but love the child," Robert said slowly, and turned to face her. He was silhouetted against the window, and Mary peered directly at him, even as she rocked Bobby gently on her knees.

He seemed to struggle for a moment, clasping and unclasping his hands gently, before he settled upon what to say. Every word seemed to hide a thousand more beneath it. "You do know that whatever my feelings about Sybil, and – her husband," he whispered, "You do know that I never – not truly – blamed you and Matthew."

Mary nodded, slowly, pressing her lips together. Her hands were idle, restless, and she gently placed Bobby back into his basket to fiddle anxiously with her skirt. Her father shook his head. "If only you knew how sorry I was," he said, voice fierce with emotion, "and how I regret casting any sort of doubt on your marriage, my dear girl."

"Papa…" she tried, feeling her own voice crack and tremble in reflection of his. She twisted towards him.

"No, it has been too long and it must be said. If you ever thought – if Matthew ever thought that I…" He stopped again, and rubbed a hand over his face, and then suddenly smiled. "Do you remember, a very long time ago, when a Duke came to visit? After we lost Patrick."

Mary frowned, confused. "Of course."

"Yes. The Duke of Crowborough – he got through it, you know – and he gave us such ideas, and you were all so angry with me for turning him away and dashing your chances. No, don't look at me like that, darling, you were angry. Your Mama was furious with me. In many ways, you were right to be. Do you know why I was so sure in my decision that evening, really?"

"No…" Mary shook her head, staring at him as though she'd never seen this man in front of her before.

Robert looked oddly proud of himself, or… at ease, finally. A sort of peace, the peace of honesty and release, had settled over him.

"It was because – I only wanted you to marry a good man, my dear girl. A brave man – and the Duke of Crowborough was neither of those things. And Matthew –"

"Papa –"

"Matthew –" he would not let her stop him, now, "is both of those, and more. And I am so very happy, so very glad, that you married him – whatever the circumstances. And I am – so very sorry, that I ever made you think otherwise. My dear girl."

"Oh, Papa!" he finally allowed her to cry, as she rushed into his arms, on her tiptoes and hugging him tighter than she had done since she was a little girl.

* * *

><p>The courtroom was quiet, and serious. Matthew sat, his back straight as a rod, straighter than it had ever been, he thought, since he'd been at the front. His mouth was pressed into a hard line, his jaw set, as he listened to Sir Richard Carlisle calmly telling the court (and all the gathered journalists) how the late Mrs. Bates had sold the story of Lady Mary and the Turk to his newspaper for no reason more than to lash indirectly out at her estranged husband.<p>

Oh, the details were not gone into. No. But it was enough, he could hear, no, _feel_ the whispers, and indignation bubbled through him until his fingers had curled into fists on the bench by his side. Robert was tense, beside him, nervously awaiting his own turn in the witness stand. But Matthew didn't care about that. He cared about _this_, about his wife's name being bandied carelessly about between gossips, thrown to the gutter for the sake of petty revenge that was nothing at all to do with Mary, that had torn their family apart.

His blood boiled. And Sir Richard didn't _care_, he reeked calmness and coolness in complete oblivion to the devastation his bloody _newspaper_ had caused. And it could not be laid to rest, no, it had to be reared up again now at a widely publicised and talked-of trial. Bates would need a miracle, Matthew reckoned, to get off after this. The prosecution mercilessly twisted the words – except that they didn't, they'd each only told the truth, it was impossible – of the witnesses, and things were fast going from bad to worse. Matthew's teeth unconsciously ground in frustration. _Everything_ about this frustrated him; the injustice, everything that it drudged up, the complete unawareness of the feelings of anybody involved, no matter how indirectly! He felt a biting satisfaction that he'd come to listen, despite the anger it caused him.

_Guilty_.

The word rang and echoed around the lofty chamber, followed swiftly by Anna's wounded scream. Matthew winced. It really seemed impossible for it to have gone any other way – he doubted the press would have allowed it. His jaw clenched again as he made as quick an exit as he could, gasping for air, almost, out into the more spacious lobby away from everyone else. It was deserted, for everyone that was there was, naturally, packed into the courtroom to hear the verdict. But Matthew's ears were ringing, his body trembling with bitterness at the unfairness of it all. He was glad that Mary wasn't here. He couldn't have borne for her to be, not to be faced with it all again and reminded of it. And nobody seemed to _care_!

Quiet footsteps echoed across the marble floor behind him. He whirled around, his body tensed with agitation and upset, only to see Carlisle (of all people) appearing from a side passage. The older man stopped when he saw him.

"Ah, Mr…. Crawley, isn't it?" the newspaper magnate approached him, having the audacity to hold out his hand. Matthew took it with a vice-like grip.

"That's right," he snipped. "And you're Sir Richard Carlisle."

"Of course, I remember you," Sir Richard smiled without warmth. "I was a friend of your wife's aunt. In fact we've met, I remember a charming incident with your daughter at the report of the hospital at Downton."

"Yes, I know," Matthew replied, his voice cutting across the stillness of the chamber like ice.

Carlisle raised an eyebrow. "I needed some air after all that! Terrible business, isn't it."

"Not helped at all by you." Matthew had bitten the words out before he'd been able to stop himself.

"I beg your pardon?" The voices of both men had suddenly taken on a distinctly more dangerous edge.

"You and your bloody newspaper, stirring the whole thing up! Without – without any regard for the consequences!" Matthew was angry, he knew, he could feel it rising within him. Sir Richard's unflappable coolness was only making it worse. His fingers flexed uncontrollably.

"It isn't my job to care about the consequences," Carlisle said smoothly. "It's my job to sell newspapers; that is all. I'm sorry that you have a problem with that –"

"A _problem_?" Matthew hissed. Distant footsteps could be heard, signalling the emptying of the courtroom, but he was oblivious to all of it, as righteous indignation burned in his chest. "Do you have the slightest idea of what trouble –"

"No, I don't, and nor do I care. However your family chose to deal with –"

"Don't you dare speak about my family."

"It's rather too late for that, don't you think?" Carlisle quipped humourlessly, squaring up to Matthew. "I believe your wife already garnered a mention –"

"You slanderous –"

"I'd beg you not to use that word, it implies that I'm a liar. I am - many things, Mr. Crawley, but not that. I sell newspapers, but everything you read in them is true. You cannot blame me for your wife's –"

"You bastard!"

Something like a red mist descended over Matthew's vision as his fist connected with a sickening, satisfying thud into Sir Richard's jaw. He saw the older man snap back, careering into an ornate cabinet as his arm sent a fragile vase shattering to the ground. His blood raced in his ears, his whole body shaking in anger and tension as Sir Richard recovered and flung back at him, catching his fist on his arm as they grappled fiercely without thought for where they were or why on earth even they were fighting in their rage.

"_Stop this at once!"_

His father-in-law's horrified, authoritative shout cut through to Matthew's awareness, and he dragged himself off of Carlisle, trembling and wiping pursed beads of sweat from his forehead. Carlisle stood a foot or two away, glaring at him, touching his lip tenderly.

Robert stormed over. "What on _earth_ –"

"Sorry about the vase."

It was the only thing he could think of to say. He'd been a fool, he knew, but he was not about to apologise for _that_.

Carlisle growled at him, maintaining a wary distance as the lobby began to bustle again with activity.

"You'll pay dearly for that, Mr. Crawley; if you think –"

"Here's what I think," Robert cut over him, glaring fiercely. "Matthew and I are going to leave, now, with our party. And this will be forgotten. That is it."

Matthew stood sullenly to the side, as Carlisle went to protest; but Robert did not allow him the chance. "I'll give you the credit, Sir Richard, of believing you an intelligent man. And you know that this would not be worth causing any trouble over – it is not worth your time, nor your money, and so you will walk away now, as will we."

The newspaper proprietor's eyes glittered coldly at Matthew's, for one final moment before he stalked off, to restore something of his dignity.

Robert glanced at Matthew, who was gently touching his chin for bruises. "That was very foolish, you know," he said quietly.

"I know. I couldn't help myself."

"I know." The Earl smiled. "I don't blame you, and – I must admit, I'm rather glad you did."

And they left it at that.

* * *

><p>The verdict left an atmosphere of despair over the house and family, as they made the long and miserable journey back to Downton the next day. When Matthew finally reached his home, his family… he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with his wife and hold her. And he did, while she kissed his bruised knuckles, and did not need to ask him what had happened.<p>

Slowly, they all tried to get back to normal. And when the news finally, unexpectedly came that Bates' sentence had been altered to life imprisonment, a tentative happiness broke out. It was not over yet.

The servant's ball, delayed for so long, seemed a fitting celebration. It seemed a celebration, at last, of so many things – of restored possibilities and futures, restored relationships, and healed hearts. Traditions of first dances were thrown out of the window (it was difficult, Edith had realised, without Cora – and so suggested that they scrap the idea of that altogether) as Mary took the first with her father, a sight that made Matthew smile broadly, as well as Violet, who watched quietly from the sidelines.

"Things always have a way," she murmured quietly, conspiratorially, to him, "of working themselves out. One way, or another."

Matthew shared her knowing smile, and watched his wife dance. She was… so beautiful, and so beautifully elegant, and he found himself amazed once more at how the strength of his adoration only grew and grew.

He watched her, and loved her. Through all of it – everything he'd suffered and borne – she'd been there, without complaint (or if she had complained, it was well within her right to), had fought for him when he'd been too despondent to fight for himself. Through the best of it, and the worst of it, she'd been there; an unwavering support at his side. He marvelled at her, wondered where on earth she drew the strength from. And more than any of that, she'd given him three precious children, who he (they) adored with the whole strength of their hearts. Watching her, he could not stop smiling for the love that ached in his chest.

She'd stopped, now, was chatting to his mother. Matthew was pleased, so very pleased, that they were so close. He would never dream of even wishing that his mother might become one to Mary – though he didn't know how close that was to being true. When it was all she had left of him, Mary had clung to Isobel (and she to her), and had formed a bond that Matthew would never have understood.

He got up, and walked around the edge of the room, until he reached her side with a sly, gentle smile. She felt his presence before he'd stopped, and only then did she turn to see him.

"What about it?" Matthew quietly asked, barely waiting for her answering shrug as he held out his hand and led her to the floor. And they danced, and danced, forgetting everyone else in the room as their eyes lingered only on each other, and their hands, tenderly holding and guiding as their bodies moved together in harmony. They were lost.

Later, when they could dance no more, they sought the air only to find the ground covered with a light carpet of snow, as fresh flakes floated gently down.

"That was fun," Matthew smiled, pulling her around into his arms and laughing as a snowflake landed on her nose.

"Mm!" she hummed, and lay her head against his chest. Her shoulders were bare, her dress not heavy enough to keep out the cold, but she was as warm as she ever needed to be in his arms. It was only a moment, anyway, before Matthew had draped his own jacket over her shoulders.

Gently, she placed a soft kiss to that one spot of his throat that her lips could reach, and smiled at his sigh. "I think Bel will be old enough, next year. I think she would like to dance with Carson."

"I think _you_ would like her to dance with Carson!" Matthew chuckled, hugging her tightly. "But I admit, it would be a lovely sight."

Love blossomed in his heart and overwhelmed him, at the thought of their children and their future. Tears suddenly stung behind his eyes, and he kissed Mary's cheek, again and again, tucking his face into her shoulder.

"What is it, darling?" Mary asked softly, rubbing her hands up and down his back. His answering chuckle sounded tearful, and she frowned gently.

"Oh, my darling," he breathed, easing back to look at her properly. His eyes shone with emotion. Their past, their present, their future… it had all somehow been _right_ – if they were here, now, like this – with their children as they were – then it was _right_, it _had_ all been right.

All of it. "I was only thinking," he smiled, lips trembling as his voice shook with love. His hand rose to her cheek, brushing away soft flakes of snow from her face as she gazed at him, her eyes searching his for that understanding between them. "How very lucky I am, Lady Mary Crawley, that you ever did me the honour of becoming my wife."

There was such unadulterated adoration in his voice, in his whole expression, that Mary burst into a delighted laugh to save her own tears from falling. And Matthew laughed too, and then she was in his arms, as light as a feather, and they were turning and turning and laughing in the sheer joy and delight of loving each other.

**TBC**

* * *

><p>AN: _Thank you so much for reading! I had enormous fun writing this chapter, once it came to me, and I very much hope you enjoyed it too - it posed quite the challenge, considering a lot of what happened in the episode is completely irrelevant for ATiL's M/M, covering issues already dealt with. I know I changed some things and fiddled with some things - I'd love to know what you thought, and I appreciate every single review so very much!_

_One chapter to go, that will really be more of an epilogue. *sniff* _

_Thank you! :)  
><em>


	30. Epilogue

_A/N: HAPPY SUNDAY._

_Here we are. The closing chapter of ATiL. To say I'm emotional is kind of an understatement!_

_This will be woefully inadequate but I must thank you, from the absolute bottom of my heart, for all your support. Whether you've read, alerted, favourited, reviewed, tweeted, tumblred, whatever... Thank you. I've been overwhelmed, and incredibly touched, by the response to this fic. Particularly because it started so small... It was just a little idea, something just for me, and I've been completely humbled by your responses as it's grown and grown far beyond what I ever envisaged it might be. Thank you._

_To EOlivet... Thank you. Without her this fic wouldn't be here. I was never going to write it. I thought it was implausible, or silly, or contrived, but I LIKED it and she convinced me to write it anyway, so I did, and she's been an absolute rock. That's an understatement. She's a treasure, and this would never have been written or continued without her enthusiasm!_

_Without further ado, I shall let you get on. Enjoy. _

_:)  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>11th November 1920<em>

Matthew stared thoughtfully out of his dressing room window at the gloomy sky, glancing down as his valet finished adjusting the strap on the belt of his uniform.

"How's that, your Lordship?" Thomas asked, stepping back to check everything over. "It must be a while since this has seen the light of day!"

"Quite right," Matthew smiled wryly, "and glad I am of it. Thank you, Barrow, that'll do nicely. Will you be wearing yours for the ceremony?"

"Oh, yes, I'll be digging it out of the mothballs while your Lordship's breakfasting. I'll have your cap and gloves ready, and your greatcoat, in the hall for when you leave too."

Matthew nodded, and smiled gratefully at Thomas. They were still getting used to each other, really, it being only a couple of months since they'd lost Robert. There'd been a sad irony to it, after the late Earl had made the month-long trip to Egypt with the idea of handing over more responsibility to Matthew for the estate… only to return with a tropical illness far beyond the realm of Clarkson's expertise that had claimed him within a week.

Still, he was feeling pretty well settled with Thomas, after having left Molesley to remain as butler for his mother at Crawley House. It might have seemed silly – they'd only met once in the trenches, but they'd both _been_ there, even Thomas for two years before his wound (which Matthew had always had his doubts about, but it seemed such a small thing now to quibble over) – but, particularly today, Matthew felt they had some sort of bond through it. They were the only two in the big house now, who'd been there, who'd known what it was like. And he appreciated that.

A memory struck him, then, and he grinned. "Do you remember, that one time we bumped into each other in the trenches and had tea?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows, and laughed gently.

"Do I! Yes, I remember reckoning what a joke my mother would have found it; me giving tea to the future Earl of Grantham."

"And now look at us! Quite a way we've come since then, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, certainly. If my dear mother, God rest her soul, would've found that a lark –she always had high hopes for me, my Lord, but I don't think she ever counted on me actually becoming valet to the Earl of Grantham."

"No? Well," Matthew smiled, tugging reflexively at his cuff. "If I'm entirely honest, I don't think I ever quite counted on actually becoming the Earl of Grantham, either. Not in any real sort of way, and not for a great many years yet. Anyway… it turns out you are, and I must say a pretty decent one, too."

Gently brushing stray fluff from the shoulders of Matthew's jacket, Thomas grinned to himself. He certainly felt that they got on better than he ever had with the late Earl; though, he supposed, Matthew had less reason to distrust him. But he didn't intend for that to change.

"Thank you, Lord Grantham, very much. And if you'll pardon me, I might say the same to you!"

Matthew did appreciate that, enormously. As he made his way downstairs, with Isis bounding excitedly behind him, his palm grazed along the smooth, dark wood of the banister and he wondered about how he really didn't feel like an Earl yet at all. It was still too soon, and every day he expected Robert to appear at the breakfast table and tell him what to do about this, or that, or simply to pass him an encouraging nod. He felt like an intruder. Today would be his first real public business since the title had passed to him, and while it was one he felt an enormous honour to uphold, he still felt a bubbling anxiety about it.

On entering the dining room, he smiled to see Mary already there in an elegantly simple black dress.

"You look lovely darling," he smiled, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips as his arm slipped in greeting around her waist.

"Hello!" she chuckled quietly, clutching at his lapel with her free hand to pull him towards her again, just for a moment, mindful of Carson standing stolidly in the corner. Stepping back, she allowed her hand to trail down Matthew's chest as she cast her eyes appreciatively over him. "You look… To be quite honest, dear, I'm not sure if seeing you wear that again makes me feel more… scared, or…" She licked her lips and blinked at him with wide, glittering eyes. To see him in his uniform brought back so many memories. An ache of fear fluttered quickly through her, that brief little panic where she forgot that they were safe, now, and happy. The reminder that so often he had left them, that he had been in danger, that he'd been hurt… Yet it mingled with the warm, inevitable stir of desire because he really – _really_ did look very, very fine in it, and she cast her mind to more pleasant memories of freeing him from it in passion…

Matthew touched her elbow and smiled tenderly, understanding everything in her gentle blush and the nervous glint in her eye. Picking up a plate to serve his breakfast, he said, "I know. Anyway it's only for this morning."

They sat down together, sipping quietly and reflectively at their coffee. They always breakfasted together. They'd needed each other desperately, these last few months, and the idea that Mary should choose to breakfast alone in their room seemed quite unthinkable.

Browsing through the newspaper, Matthew's eyes lingered on the notices for many similar ceremonies that would be taking place around the county that morning. Unconsciously his fingers clutched a little tighter at the pages, and a little tighter at the delicate handle of his coffee cup, until he felt Mary's hand lay softly upon his arm.

"Are you alright, darling?" she asked quietly. This morning, she knew, would be terribly difficult for him.

"I suppose so." His answering smile was a little weak. "Just a little nervous, actually. I wish – God, I wish your father was here."

Didn't they all! Mary clucked softly at her husband's anxious chuckle, and squeezed his arm in assurance.

"I know you do. You will do admirably well, though, you know – and I think it will mean a great deal to everyone, to come from you. After all, they all know that…"

"Of course," Matthew nodded. He didn't want to think about that, and yet it was impossible not to. Especially today. Sometimes, in the dark of night, he worried that _this _was all the dream. That his nightmares were real, that he'd never escaped it at all, that he'd wake up and find himself back amidst the dirt and the gunfire and the filth. That all he'd have left of his family would be letters, photographs, that they couldn't really be in his arms, that this wasn't _real… _Taking a deep breath, he turned to Carson and forced himself to brighten.

"Carson," he asked, twisting round in his chair at the head of the long table. "Would you find out from Miss Ludbrook whether the children are nearly ready? And say that she might bring them down as soon as they are?"

The understanding butler nodded, and left the room for a minute or two. It wasn't very long before he came back, clearing his throat upon entrance to alert the Earl and Countess to his presence. This had quickly become habit after one incident too many of unwittingly interrupting a tender embrace.

He smiled fondly. "Miss Ludbrook reports that Lady Mabel and Lady Catherine will be dressed and downstairs in ten minutes or so, your Lordship."

"Thank you," Matthew nodded. "What about Bobby?"

"Lord Downton isn't quite ready, I'm told –"

"Dear, is he fussing again," Mary rubbed her hands together and made as if to stand up.

"–But will be ready perfectly in time, my Lady, so not to worry." The little boy, barely over a year old, was the delight of his family – especially as such exciting developments dawned as beginning to stand, beginning to babble in almost-words and beginning to discover his own teeth. Today, though, they didn't have the time for that.

Matthew rubbed a hand over his face, as he smiled.

"Carson, how many times, 'Lord Downton' seems a perfectly absurd title when he's such a little child; can't he be… Master Robert, or –"

"No, my dear, he can't," Mary laughed at him, not for the first time. While Matthew had taken very well (over the years) to the expectations and titles and etiquette that he must expect as the Earl, it seemed that his son's title was rather a sticking point.

Carson's head dipped respectfully, but he was quite sure.

"You know I like to do things properly, Lord Grantham…"

"I know, I know. I will get used to it, one day, Carson… You'll just have to bear with me in the meantime."

With breakfast over a little while later, Matthew retired to the library. Sitting down at his desk, Isis padded after him and plopped her chin on his knee, as if sensing his mood. Once more, as he'd done several times over the last few days, he pulled out a sheet of paper and poised a pen over it, finding himself unable to commit any words. Following him, Mary rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and kissed the top of his head.

"I know I should have something prepared," he muttered to himself as much as to her, at last letting the pen drop uselessly onto the polished wood. "But I just can't seem to find the words."

"They'll come to you," Mary murmured into his hair, stroking his shoulders to calm him. She could feel the tension radiate from him, and leaned down a little further to softly kiss his neck. "You mustn't worry –"

The door clicked open, then, and they turned to see Mabel and Catherine peering around the door. Both girls rushed excitedly in but, halfway to her parents, Catherine stopped as her eyes widened, her expression crumpling into a loud, distressed cry. Mabel held Mary's hand quietly and watched, patting Isis idly on her other side. A little serious frown crossed her brow as Catherine flung herself at Matthew's legs, who'd stood up as soon as she'd cried.

"My darling girl," he hushed quietly, picking his younger daughter up and holding her against his chest. She whimpered quietly into his shoulder, batting her small hands at the belt across his shoulders and tugging at the gold braid. "What is it, Kit?"

Mabel shrugged at her Mama's querulous expression. "She was fine a minute ago," she muttered around her thumb, which Mary distractedly plucked from her mouth. "Only Bobby was fussy but me and Kit were good –"

Catherine sniffed, scrubbing her hand across her teary face as she blinked up at her father. Her little lip wobbled. Matthew kissed her, and again, tapping his finger affectionately against her pouted bottom lip then brushing her hair back from her face. He hated it when they cried, the sound twisting a primal ache in his gut. And it had been when she'd looked at him, he knew it… Once more, he asked her softly what was wrong, sitting down again and hugging her on his lap.

She patted her hand against his chest, her voice shaking tearfully.

"Papa, you… you go away 'gain?"

Mabel suddenly understood, and tugged at her father's arm. She looked a little sad, too.

"You always were going away when you wears this, Papa." Unlike Catherine, Mabel was about old enough to remember why today was different, and that last year had been different, the one other day when Matthew had worn his uniform since the end of the war. But she could still remember that while Papa had worn it, he'd been so rarely at home. She remembered missing him ever such a lot, and Mama telling her every day about him. All her earliest memories of Papa were of him wearing it, and how scarce his visits had been.

Matthew felt wretched. Absolutely wretched, as he hugged both his daughters closely to him and they clung to his neck, feeling Mary's strengthening hand on his back as he gasped back threatening tears.

"Oh, my darlings, no… No, I'm not going away again. I'm not ever going away again, do you understand?"

A pair of bright blue eyes and a pair of deep, dark eyes blinked seriously back at him, and he gently brushed away Catherine's tears and tapped Mabel's nose. "It's only today, darlings; do you… do you remember why today is special?"

Mabel nodded surely. "To remember the brave soldiers, 'cause… because the war finished."

"Like you Papa!" Catherine tried a watery smile.

"That's right, good girls. And it's very important, you see. So we're going to the village in a moment, and we've something very special to show everybody. Something to help us remember, does that seem a good idea?"

Mary smiled encouragingly beside him. "I think it seems a very good idea, Papa, don't you both think?"

They thought it seemed a very good idea, too.

An hour later, Matthew stood proudly upright at the side of Downton's village green, glancing fondly over at Crawley House where they had been through so much together, and to the churchyard beside it, where the late Earl and Countess now rested together, along with so many of the names that he was about to read out. He remembered William and took a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to squash the pressing feeling of guilt on his chest. Guilt not just for William, but for all of them. Every young idiot who'd paid that price, under the misguided belief that they were doing what was right. None of it had been right. A light drizzle started to fall, spattering on his cap and the umbrellas of the gathered villagers. He blinked the raindrops away, clutching Mary's hand tightly where she stood beside him. In front of her was their large black pram, in which Bobby had pushed himself up to his feet, steadying himself on the edge of it while Mabel held him supportively. Catherine stood just in front of her parents' clasped hands, her face turned up towards Matthew even as the light rain fell into her eyes.

When it was time, just before eleven o'clock judging by the clock on the church's tower, Matthew stepped up onto the little rostrum beside a large, covered object in the centre of the green that towered a little way above him. The covering sheets flapped loudly against it in the cold wind, and he glanced at the expectant, thoughtful faces that looked back at him and smiled. The entire village had turned out, including a great many from outlying farms and estates. It meant a great deal to him. After a moment's thought, he took his uniform cap off and clutched it tightly in his hands, almost welcoming the cool drizzle down the back of his neck. Taking strength from Mary's supportive nod and smile, and the sight of her standing with their darling children, he smiled faintly back and addressed the village as their Earl.

"I know it's rather rotten weather," he began with a deep breath, "but let me assure you of how very much I appreciate your being here this morning. It's… been a year or two of change for all of us, and adjustment – but at least they have been two years of peace. And today we are remembering that, and being thankful for it… particularly the brave – the _very_ brave men who gave their lives that it might be achieved."

A murmur of assent, and appreciation, rippled through the gathering. Matthew nodded, and looked at them, picking out only one or two faces that he recognised passing in the dismal filth of France.

He moistened his lips and carried on, his voice beginning to crack slightly. "I don't believe there's a person standing here who didn't lose somebody. And I…" For a moment he was forced to stop, and gather himself, gripping the edges of the rostrum until his knuckles trembled. "I… can tell you, with absolute sincerity, how – how damned brave they were. And how damned proud of them you should be. And… how damned thankful you should be for those lucky bastards of us who managed to make it back."

As soon as he'd said it he winced at the curse on his lips. They were shocked, he could tell, but… he couldn't bring himself to care. He saw the silent tears on Mary's cheeks, on the cheeks of most of the people standing before him. He _meant_ it. He'd come close, so bloody close, to losing everything. And they had nearly lost him, and the thought of his girls growing up without him (of Bobby not… having ever come into being) made him tremble with sadness. Yes, he was damned thankful. Memories were flooding over him now, of torn faces and broken bodies and unmentionable things that no man should ever have seen. The smell, the cold, the noise… How had he, how had _anyone_, made it through?

It took him a short moment to recover past the lump welling in his throat. He glanced at the clock. It was very nearly time. Quietly, he gave a nod to the men waiting by the covered structure, one on a stepladder. "In memory of them," he said, through tight, trembling lips as his voice shook now heavily with emotion, "it gives me the greatest honour to unveil this memorial – to them."

There wasn't a gasp, nor a murmur, as the gleaming commemorative stone was uncovered. One by one, slowly, almost reverently, Matthew began to read each name carved deeply into its surface. There seemed so many, so damned many, and now he could hear quiet, muffled sobs in the weighty silence between each name.

In perfect time, he read the last one as the clock hands turned to show eleven o'clock. As it began to chime, the sound ringing across the muggy air, Matthew closed his address. "Let us remember them in silence, with thankful and solemn hearts."

He blinked up at the sky, into the falling rain, feeling the cool drops down his face mingling with silent tears of gratitude and sorrow.

When it was over, he stepped back down and shook the hands of many pressed around him, expressing their appreciation for his heartfelt words. He nodded, smiled, dutifully accepted it all but he longed to escape them now, to retreat to the safety and the solitude of his family and his home. He sighed when Mary finally found him, sinking into the warmth of her tight embrace and her tender, lingering kiss.

"Darling…" she whispered, lifting her hand to brush lovingly over his damp cheek. She wanted to say that he'd been wonderful, but of course she couldn't. It wasn't wonderful, it was hard, and meaningful, and difficult, but he'd done so well and she was so desperately proud of him.

"I didn't mean to – say what I –"

"It's forgotten, my love. Forgotten."

"I love you," he whispered deeply, and held her tightly. As if he might never let her go. Both were sickeningly aware of how close, how devastatingly close they'd come to losing each other throughout the war. They clung to each other now, as if the warm reality of each other could drive away the memories and fear and loneliness that they'd faced in those years without each other.

At last they broke, though not without another fleeting kiss, and turned to see where their children had gone to under the care of Isobel. They were peering at the memorial, Catherine having clambered right up by it as she traced her hand over the carved names. At her beckoning, Mabel leaned closer over her shoulder and peered at it too.

"Thanks, Mother," Matthew smiled gratefully as they approached.

Isobel gave him a fond kiss. "It's always a pleasure, dear. You did very well, you know. Very well." Her expression shone with pride for her son. If only he could know! She'd only ever wished, since he was quite a little boy, that he should grow up to be happy. Many times in the last ten years she'd worried about whether he could ever be. But now, at this moment, she could not imagine being more proud of him. And, of course, his small family.

"What are they doing," Mary wondered quietly, lifting Bobby up into her arms where he latched onto her necklace, squirming at the release from the confinement of his pram.

"We's look for Papa…" Catherine muttered, frowning as her finger traced the stone in front of her.

"I'm here, darling," Matthew laughed, crouching behind them.

"No, Papa. Here," Mabel pointed back at the memorial as if it were perfectly obvious.

"You was brave too!" Catherine insisted, turning round with a determined little frown on her face.

"You're a… Papa, is your name not really Papa, it's… Oh." Mabel was very confused. She knew enough to understand that everyone had a Papa, but… everybody called her Papa such different things. He was 'darling', or 'Mr. Crawley', but now people seemed to call him 'Lord Grantham' or 'Your Lordship' or 'my dear' and… none of those sounded _quite_ like real names, either.

Matthew laughed brightly in the dampness of the rain, and put his arm around her.

"No, darling. I'm a Matthew."

"Ma'ffew…" Catherine experimentally rolled the name past her lips, while Mabel turned and began scouring the memorial for an "M… M… Ma – oh…" It was very difficult!

"Bel, you won't –"

"What's Mama?" Catherine interrupted him, quite intrigued by this new discovery.

"Mama is Mary," Matthew said quietly, his face lit with an adoring smile.

Catherine grinned. "S'pretty!" Looking up at her Mama over Matthew's shoulder, she clapped her hands together appreciatively.

"Papa –" Mabel demanded his attention again, unable still to find his name in the very long, very confusing list.

Mary watched them with tears in her eyes and their son in her arms as Matthew explained to their daughters why his name wouldn't, and shouldn't be on the memorial. Because he was there, see, and they didn't need his name in a list to remember him because he was with them, and would be with them always for a very very long time, he hoped. And wasn't that much better than to just have his name on a stone? Yes, they rather thought it was.

Isobel invited them back to Crawley House for tea and, seeing as it was so close and there was a little while yet until luncheon, they slowly made their way there.

Once over the threshold, Mary allowed Bobby to wriggle out of her arms as she set him gently down onto the carpeted floor, laughing as he half-crawled, half-stumbled down the corridor.

"He hasn't forgotten his home quite yet," she smiled.

It really did feel like home, she thought, as they settled into the sitting room and Molesley appeared with tea. For so many years, and through so much, it _had_ been home. Their home.

And when they arrived back at their new home, after settling the children back into the nursery and the dedicated care of Miss Ludbrook after kisses and smiles to say goodbye for now, Matthew thought it high time that his uniform was banished to the closets to be forgotten for another year.

And he didn't mind at all that Mary wanted to help him out of it.

Back in the unshakeable haven of their bedroom, it fell from him piece by piece under her quick fingers and deft hands. Belts, buckles, braids, buttons, jacket, tie, boots, another belt… All while his own hands worked swiftly at her hooks and clips and catches, as silk fell and cotton fell, slipping into forgotten piles on the floor to the accompaniment of sighs and soft breaths as they finally fell into bed. The only covering they needed was the other's hands, lips, body…

Mary's back arched instinctively as the moist heat of Matthew's tongue travelled all the way from her navel to her throat, before seeking the softness of her breasts, gasping wordlessly as his lips closed over one, his hand upon the other. After that morning, Matthew needed her, so desperately, needed to remind himself that he had her, that they had each other. That they'd made it. That they were alright. His lips, his tongue, his fingers, teased over her as she writhed up against him, clutching at his hair. He moaned around her breast, sweeping his tongue over again, and again, grazing his hand down, and down, until he found her.

She cried his name in a strangled gasp, shuddering desperately at his touch, tugging him up to find his lips with her own. Her arms wrapped fiercely around his neck as his fingers slipped from her, hot moans mingling between the clash of their tongues as with one swift thrust of his hips he filled her completely and they both cried out together.

Matthew cradled her against him, clinging to her hip with one hand as they flung together, and again, and again. He treasured her, and savoured her, and worshipped her, as his memory pricked with the recollection that at one time they'd thought this pleasure had been stripped from them. She was warm and supple and slender in his arms and her long, lithe legs were curled tightly around his waist, as she drew him into her so wonderfully deeply, and then more, and more… her moans shuddered with each thrust, her breath hot against his shoulder, as they found each other so completely.

When it was (too soon, always too soon) over, when they'd each crashed over the glorious precipice of pleasure in turn, brought there and held there and released by the other, watching with fevered, dark eyes as their love shattered before them… they curled shakily together, long limbs tangling in the damp sheets, Matthew's lean and scarred body pressed to Mary's slim and delicate one, his arm wrapped snugly around her waist.

Dressing could wait, luncheon could wait… Everything could wait.

There, in each others' arms… in their bed… in their home… everything else faded out of importance.

"Darling?" Matthew whispered, pressing a hot kiss to the soft skin behind Mary's ear.

"Mm?" She twisted, flopping over to face him. Her fingers curled idly into the light, scattered hair of his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes shining with affection.

Sensing the depth of meaning in his words, Mary wriggled closer, tangling her legs between his. Matthew kissed her damp forehead tenderly, and sighed. "For finding me," he added softly.

"For… what?" She blinked up at him, frowning a little. Matthew chuckled deeply.

"For finding me," he whispered. "In Manchester. Before the war."

"Oh." Tears stung behind her eyes at everything those simple words meant. "Thank you for not turning me out," she smiled wryly.

"How could I have," he murmured, closing his eyes as he pulled her more closely against him.

Mary laughed, almost bitterly. "I thought… I thought you'd despise me. I was so afraid."

"Oh my darling…" He kissed her again, his lips warm against the cooling sweat on her brow. "I never would… I never _could_ have despised you." When Mary sobbed into his shoulder, he kissed her again, his forehead knitting into a frown of deep and complete sincerity. "Darling, I loved you…"

"And I – loved you!" she gasped, her fingers clutching desperately at his skin.

"I know. I couldn't… I couldn't have done it, Mary. Not without –"

"Yes, you could. You're strong, darling, you've been so strong."

"Have I?" he laughed. "Not so much as you, I think."

"Well, I…" she eased back and glanced up, meeting his eyes. Tears shone in them, and she smiled. "I had you, you see. So I could be. And then Bel, and… Whatever had happened, I knew I would always have that at least. A little part of you, only – I'm so, so glad that she wasn't all I had left of you!"

Matthew stroked over his wife's cheek, curling a dark strand of her hair between his fingers.

"And I could be because I knew that I had you to come home to." He grinned, and kissed her nose. "Do you suppose that makes us even?"

"I suppose so, darling."

"Good."

They lay together, with no more words to say, in complete assurance of their love. That morning, the ceremony, the memorial… had been a painful, and sharp reminder of all that they had come so close to losing. They were so very lucky… to have each other, to have their three children (and who knew how many more might follow?)… to have their family about them, whether they were near or far (Edith had married Sir Anthony in the spring, and they remained close, while Sybil continued to write often). Most of their family, at least… for in losing Mary's parents, they had been thrust without much warning into these new roles as the Earl and Countess of Grantham.

But they were alright. They'd been lucky… They'd found each other, and accepted each other. They'd braved the storm, many storms, through the war and after it (it had been a funny sort of peace, Matthew had joked once, as everything was seeming to fall apart around them). But they'd managed it, together, and they _would_ manage it, together, along with whatever hurdles they crossed in the future.

Because they had each other. And no matter what happened, no matter what else was left or taken from them or granted to them… they would always… _always_, have that.

**Fin**

* * *

><p>AN: _I don't know about you but I'M sobbing. _

_Thank you, so very much, for reading. I've had enormous pleasure writing this story, and if you've enjoyed it even a little bit then I'm enormously, enormously glad, and very touched._

_That said - if you have enjoyed it, a review would mean the world to me. To all those faithful people who've had this on story alert, or who have favourited it - or if you've done neither but have just enjoyed it - just a single line of a review really would mean the world. I'd love to know what you thought, of this chapter or the whole fic, now that it's come to an end. I'd appreciate it more than I can say. If you've never left a review before, now would be a wonderful time. I feel incredibly awkward even asked, because I HATE to seem like the type to beg for reviews, but it would mean so much to me because this fic has meant so much to me. (And I promise I'll never ask again!)_

_Thank you. You're all darlings and I love you, and thank you for taking this journey with me (and them!).  
><em>


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